


Coping With a Recalcitrant Bloodsucker

by ZephyrOfAllTrades



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Series of Unfortunate Misundertandings, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, But a lot more of fluff and humour, F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human!Aziraphale, Male Crowley (Good Omens), Mentions of Blood and Torture, Mild Angst, Minda Webber's The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing AU, Mutual Pining, No Beta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining While Married, Sexual Tension, Smut, Vampire!Crowley, because OC and their creator volunteered to smash a few heads, other people's original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25447273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrOfAllTrades/pseuds/ZephyrOfAllTrades
Summary: 'Get out there and impale some hearts.' Quite a romantic phrase for something so bloody…. well, bloody.Aziraphale Van Helsing had yet to kill her first vampire. Despite her family lineage, she would rather attack a box of chocolate than the undead. That is, until misunderstandings labeled her as 'compromised' and married off to an insufferable one.Anthony Crowley, Duke of Glasgow and vampire-demon, vowed only to marry the one worthy of being his eternal vampire bride. Cue one night of passion(ate drinking - disappointingly just that and nothing more), and he wondered if permanent discorporation is better than years being shackled to a Van Helsing.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 296
Kudos: 256





	1. All the Men and Women Merely Players

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot promise regular updates. I'm whinging this as I go. The characters do not want to follow Minda Webber's book. So, if you've read that lovely piece of romantic comedy, expect only major settings from that. I basically just took the Ineffable Idiots and plunked them into the world of 'The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing', swirling the mix about and peering into it for a fic plot.
> 
> Also, this is a self-indulgent fic. You see, I'm a sucker for Aziraphale in a gown. And Regency undertones.

Hushed footfalls and the whispering hem of a nightgown trailed down the darkened corridor towards the manor library. It was a familiar walk for the maiden. She showed no fear for the shadows and even willed them to spread further. Coming to a stop outside the dark oak doors, she glanced left and right. There were no other signs of life beside her own rapidly beating heart. She nudged the door open, making her way inside. She closed it as silently as she was able to, trapping herself and her dark deeds within.

There came a resounding smack as the leather-bound book connected with Aziraphale’s head. She clamped a hand to her mouth to muffle her cries. _So much for stealth_ , she chastised herself. She held her breath, straining for indications of her discovery. She breathed out in relief, the stub of a candle cradled in her free hand sputtered as if in laughter. She glared at it, then sighed. She supposed it was a good enough compensation for all her sneaking about. She was not supposed to be in the manor library but she had been smuggling books into her room and back for as long as her brother had forbidden her to read. She clucked her tongue at the absurd notion that a simple rule such as that would stop her from reading.

She had been scurrying about the library, returning an armful of the banned books back unto the shelves, trying to rearrange them in her father’s manic kind of organization before her brother noticed the tomes missing. He was already suspicious of her locked drawers. She dreaded what shall befall her should her little late-night escapades be found out. She did not want to practice her stabbing drills and risk the state of her perfectly manicured nails. Again.

Her parents were never particularly strict with her, but Gabriel was more in the mind of regulating her appetite. Literally and figuratively. She read as voraciously as she ate. And if her plumpness were anything to go by, no one should have been surprised at how she consumed the words pages bared to her. And she craved for more still. It was like her obsession with chocolate bonbons. Insatiable.

But any and all protest shall simply fly past Gabriel Van Helsing’s head. She sighed, retrieved the fallen book to try and stuff it back into its place. She scanned the titles, caressing each spine and tracing the authors’ names. None as unique as hers, but oh how she wished she’d been birthed with a charmingly ordinary and unimportant name. But the fates were cruel and she fell into the lot of the Van Helsings – vampire hunters, one and all!

Her father had been a very accomplished hunter in his time, as all Van Helsings were, until he met her mother. The woman had little say in her participation in the compulsory Van Helsing training but it was thanks to her that she had been given spare hours in the day to practice lady-like activities – proper deportment, languages and the arts. Evenings were filled with military drills including weaving in and out of crypts, the proper way to hold stake and mallet, and how best to identify a corpse from freshly buried versus the true undead.

Gabriel had taken to the training exceedingly well. He’d gone through the drills with gusto. She herself had passed with flying colors. Yet, all the while, she had envied other children. For as they frolicked in the warmth of the sun, the Van Helsings skipped into the graveyards basking in what little light the moon or lamp offered. Other children dug the earth to grow gardens, or dig up worms to play with - the Van Helsings learned the skills of proper grave robbing.

And where girls giddily welcome their coming of age by pinning their hair up and hastened themselves to the nearest ball or gala in search of their future husbands, the Van Helsings would shove a bag full of stakes into their hands for their first ever solo mission to kill a vampire. There was no fussing over the cut of the dress or adornments for their mane. Just a simple: _Get out there and impale some hearts_ _._ Quite a romantic phrase for something so bloody…. well, bloody.

But she had yet to actually fell her first vampire. Her coming of age ceremony had gotten her in the middle of a stormy night, her favorite coat ruined, and a deathly cold the morning after.

She had successfully tracked the vampire fledgling and was ready to launch herself at the unsuspecting thing but she saw the poor dear looking as drowned as her. He had been fruitlessly scooping water from his coffin, which had started looking like an animal trough. It wasn’t a surprise really as the mausoleum he’d made a home of was one of the spooky, derelict examples sought after for their aesthetics – forgetting the holes in the roof could let in rain, sleet and snow. She called out to him and asked if he needed help. The darling was sobbing and didn’t even question the wooden stake and mallet she fished out her black bag to punch a hole in the side to drain it when they had trouble toppling the water out.

They huffed their way to a nearby sepulcher with homely sconces set about the tomb walls. The casket, they set beneath a window to dry in the morning. A few wooden chairs made fine fuel for a fire to warm themselves and brighten the room. They upended and dusted off a fairly serviceable coffin and she offered her own coat to line it, after drying it by the flames - the moss stains would would have made her throw the thing away, anyway, best it be used for a better purpose. She had even been inclined to let the dear drink a little of her blood to stop his shivering and held him ‘til the storm subsided.

Thankfully, her family took wet, miserable and bedraggled as a sign of a successful hunt.

Her mother had sent her to their country estate to recover and providence pitied her enough that they had forgotten to call her back to London for three years. And her luck had persisted as Gabriel had gone to the continent for the next seven.

Of course, she had familial duty to think about and had tromped along with her cousins for reconnaissance missions but never for the actual staking. No one minded her or thought to engage her in their activities. Michael and Uriel were far too competitive and Sandalphon just wanted to see blood flow, so they never bothered when she leaves earlier than she should.

Alas, it was not to last as Gabriel had stormed back into London, giddy with the news that the nefarious Dracul had been spotted in the city. He proposed to plan a grand scheme to find the vampire and slay him. Unfortunately, their father was more thrilled with their coming travel plans to the mountains of Austria rather than the prospect of killing the oldest and most powerful nosferatu in history. Gabriel was devastated, but seeing as he would be left to manage the estate, he took it upon himself to plan for the vampire’s demise in the family’s name.

Which brought Aziraphale to tiptoeing on her dainty little feet in the middle of the night. She was at her brother’s mercy having voiced her preference to stay in London rather than tagging along with her parents, cementing herself as her brother’s only ally in his need to uphold the Van Helsing honor.

She would likely just bounce along behind him as they scoured the cemeteries in the city, she mused as she made her way back to her chambers. She must speak with her maid to lay out her least fashionable dresses for the coming weeks. Whatever Gabriel proposes, she was sure she could tolerate. With that thought, she snuggled underneath the bedclothes and drifted off to sleep.

“Oh, good Lord,” came Aziraphale’s whisper as she sidled away from an undulating toucan. The masquerade ball was in full swing and the party goers had started the ever-traditional drunk dancing over the marble floors of the ballroom. She wrinkled her nose and frowned. She indulged in alcohol, and could easily outdrink her brother and cousins when she was in the mood to do so, but this was, in her opinion, far too excessive. She sidestepped another tipsy numpty and sighed. Although she was first and foremost a proper lady and must endorse the importance of propriety, she supposed that she ought to give them a little concession. Anyone would develop a high alcohol tolerance when the family profession is tomb-raiding and heart-stabbing done mostly in the middle of the night in foggy and damp mausoleums.

“Witches,” grumbled her uncle beside her. Aziraphale brought her wing around herself and shuffled a little farther away from the old man. It would take Lance Corporal Shadwell only four minutes before he started spouting on about witches. In the paranormal community of which they thrived, it was inadvisable practice to cuss magic practitioners as they were of a large population and very much adept in potion-making and spell-casting. Aziraphale had learned to step at least six feet away from her uncle in the event an enthusiastic cursing misfired.

The family had refused to let the man use the name Van Helsing, as he had gotten himself fire-lighter crazy in his late twenties after he was pranked by a witch. He had been gearing up to have a jolly romp in bed with the woman but she had drawn extra nipples on her chest to gauge her new lovers’ kinkiness. The bits were perhaps too amazingly life-like, for the image burned itself into the army-man’s retinas and had scarred him for the rest of his life. Were it not for Aziraphale’s father, the man would have surely been left in the streets with no proper place to call home. And were it not for her parents leaving, she might not have in need of an escort to the ball.

Aziraphale let out another exasperated sigh and excused herself to wander around the room. She craned her neck in search of her target in the whirling mass of bodies. Her quarry, Gabriel had explained, was a man of wealth and status – Lord Crowley, Duke of Glasgow. His sources told him that the man was a womanizer but was very good at dodging the tactical husband-hunters. Gabriel took this information and promptly gave the responsibility to his sister.

_“I am a well-known figure, Aziraphale,” her brother cried in a too American accent. “I can’t just approach him. You, being you, have hidden yourself from society and could pass off as a normal human being and thereby have Lord Crowley believe that you pose no threat to his immortal existence.”_

He had swiftly had his contacts search the upcoming balls and parties in which the Lord would most likely attend and had the hosts send them an invitation. Gabriel had even made her use their mother’s maiden name, Fell, to keep her identity a secret.

She groaned at her brother’s designs. She was expected to tempt the vampire and obliterate him with holy water as soon as they were alone. She frowned at the thought of taking a life without a proper trial (a concept her family vehemently ignored). She’d really rather not go through with the plot. Besides, she had doubted her success from the moment the plan had been laid out to her. She wasn’t what anyone called ‘pretty’ with her untamable curls of white blonde hair, pale complexion and soft frame - Gabriel had given her far too many jabs to ‘lose the gut.’ Pursing her lips, she shuffled closer to the mirrors covering the whole wall on one side of the hall reflecting the breathtaking display of costumes.

She had been rushed out the door before she could look at herself properly, so she took a few minutes to properly acquaint herself with her appearance. She had on a robe of shimmering white material that hugged her bosom, making it look fuller. Her shoulders and collar were bare to the world. What little of the sleeves present were made of gauzy swaths of cloth, clipped at the elbows and at the wrist. A golden cord settled securely above her stomach, enough to hide its plushness. But she need not have worried as the cloth stretched as they followed the line of her curves, accentuating her broad hips and pert bum. And, although it fell almost to her heels, there was a large slit starting halfway her right thigh.

The outfit was far from what true angels wore - they believed that properly tailored clothing was the mode of dress to be followed. Her ensemble left her feeling far too exposed but at least she was kept cool under the oppressing heat of the room. She would have normally gawked at the costume but her brother insisted she needed to increase her charm if she wanted the Duke to at least give her a passing glance.

She hummed in mild surprise. The dressmaker made quite a number. She might very well be able to entice more than a glance from the suspected undead. If she could engage him in conversation, she might lure him somewhere more private so that she may perform her dreaded task. Aziraphale mumbled under her breath. The prospect of killing someone dampened her spirits once more.

She had been told from early on in her childhood that their family’s duty was to prick the nosferatu in the heels, or more specifically stake them in the chest, before they could snatch up their next victim – to drink their blood until they dried up. She wrinkled her button nose. Past dealings with said entities told her otherwise and yet there was talk of children being taken from their beds and virgins decimated in alleyways as they meandered the streets in the dead of night after some errand or other. The news had been spread about by the _ton_. When they started to notice the supernatural world, it was a definite cause for concern.

“It had never been that ghastly,” she mused. Perhaps something wicked had come to London. And she must help put a stop to it. She could not live with herself if she let the innocent be harmed.

The angel squared her shoulders and straightened her wings, she had a Duke to look for.


	2. I Am So Vexed that Every Part About Me Quivers

Anthony Crowley, Duke of Glasgow and vampire-demon, was scowling in a corner of the ballroom. The evening had started off well. He had gotten himself in the mood for fresh blood and had set about to secure a temptation or two. He styled his short red hair in the most flattering manner and donned clothes in the latest fashion. The only alteration he added to his usual dark suit was a pair of gleaming black wings and a red and black mask - the ball did require a costume of some sort. But his excitement had quickly gone down. “You’ve seen one ball, you’ve seen them all,” he muttered to himself.

As with the previous parties the past century, his initial enthusiasm for any social gathering was curbed by the disgust he felt over the pawing of this and that lady. He’d learned money attracted more flies than honey ever would. He was not in the mood for marriage, thank you very much. Human lives are far too fragile and he has yet found one with the right qualities for a proper eternal consort.

In this instance, he had been waylaid by a gaggle of women as his entrance was announced, and had expended far too much energy trying to escape their clutches. It should have been easy for a supernatural entity, but one thing he was certain of, is that a person’s will can overcome many a stubborn foe.

He skimmed the edges of the room, seeking out potential prey. He could of course just take the hand of any of the human girls trailing him. But to him, they were far too foolish and blabber-mouthed. A few minutes with a Duke and the ninnies would start spewing on about engagements, weddings and what-nots. Then the invitations would flow in earnest from patriarchs or matriarchs seeking to cement a union. He shuddered at the thought. He’s grown far too bored of social interactions and none of them could interest him the way old Athenian philosophers could. And he’s been wary of writers and poets ever since Shakespeare penned his words as his own. Although, he had gotten to glut himself with the blood of theater patrons and actors alike.

Presently though, his targets narrow down to either single men, married women or their husbands. He was very charming when he wished to be. However, contrary to rumours, he was no rake. He’d done away with that behaviour centuries ago after it had become apparent that no matter how long his string of lovers was, he would inevitably outlive them all. Though, to shake off the ennui, he’d fiddle with a few heartstrings once in a while.

A couple stumbled towards him. He could smell the brandy from their breath and their clothes. He sidestepped so as not to make contact. He scowled at the assembly, appetite abating. He shrugged to himself. He can’t truly be bothered by another botched feeding. There’s the night after, and the night after that, and the night after that. And there was more than one brothel able to supply his kind’s needs carnal or otherwise. He leaned against a column as he let his mind wander. A good bottle of wine would be an excellent substitute to quench his thirst for the evening. He let his legs saunter a path to the nearest refreshments table. He’ll stay an hour more then hie himself home, checking off social responsibilities for the next month.

As he espied an alcohol-laden table, a whirlwind of colorful shawls blocked him off. When it went still, there stood a woman in flowing gypsy robes. Bangles ran up and down her arms, their tinkling music adding to the din of the crowded space. Dark hair flowing in wild generous curls around her head and intuitive brown eyes twinkled in amusement at the gaping vampire.

“Crowley! I was looking for you,” she announced before he could regain a proper breath.

“Anathema…“ Crowley hissed out. “What the devil was that about?”

“Didn’t I mention I was looking for you?” the woman remarked, a brow raising in contempt. Lady Anathema Device came from a respectable family of witch-seers who had a tendency to meddle in other people’s affairs. Crowley had made her acquaintance through trade-related consultations and although he wanted their relationship strictly professional, the witch still took it upon herself to prod and poke him until they became inseparable friends. She made a nuisance of herself but her plan worked, regardless.

“And you just knew I’d be here tonight?”

“Of course. Auntie Agnes told me,” she said with certainty.

“Yeah, uh-huh. Great. What else did Auntie Agnes tell you?” he rolled his eyes. Agnes Nutter, Anathema’s aunt was the only witch whose predictions are one-hundred percent accurate. Knowing many people would seek her services, the seer hid herself to who knows where, sending a letter or two to her kin when she felt like it.

“That I’m going to need three cases of Châteauneuf-du-Pape for our house party next weekend,” she took his arm and dragged him to his initial destination.”Which I will remind you, again, to attend. No, make that ‘I demand you attend.’”

“Yes, yes,” he said, miffed. She handed him a flute of champagne. “You also threatened to make my hair fall out if I don’t come.” They both knew she wouldn’t do so but Crowley was wise enough to see that she could if she were inclined.

“That’s settled then,” she beamed at him. “Now I need to find my husband,” and with that, she danced her way through crowd once more.

The Duke snorted at his friend’s unpredictable ways, resolved to not even think about the implications of their very short chat. How said husband, the timid young werewolf, could keep up with her was a mystery to him. She met Newton Pulsifer, through a prophecy but not one of her relatives (except perhaps Agnes, but she was keeping mum) could make heads or tails of what their future would be like. The sense of _not_ knowing had endeared the shape-shifter to her. For someone whose whole life had been directed by this or that vision, it was an exhilarating change.

Replacing his glass with a full bottle of wine, he meandered his way towards the glass doors opening into a raised open platform with steps leading to the estate gardens. He breathed in the cool night air. The moon was high in the sky, not full enough to send the shape-shifters howling, but enough to lighten the scenery. He heard the nearby shrubbery rustle and smirked. At least some people were enjoying themselves.

He dawdled by the steps, slowly emptying the bottle in his hands. The garden had tall hedges with arches in between - passages leading to the west, south and east. The lush lawn at their intersection had a large fountain was at its center, water flowing down a stone mermaid’s tails. The vegetation looked well tended and inviting. He loved plant life even before his transformation. And one of the things that kept his sanity all through his immortal existence was his plants. The most verdant in all of London, he was proud to say. Sadly, he could only admire them by lamp or moonlight. If he was feeling foolish enough, he would wake in the late sunset and watched the leaves reflect the rusty red sunlight.

He was just wondering if he could stroll down the garden paths to search for a species he had yet to acquire when a pair of monkeys - actual tiny primates, not costumes nor the usual buffoons - ran from the nearby Eastern archway and shot towards the West. A cry of dismay followed suit. It had come from their host - a portly man dressed in kingly robes complete with a sweeping cloak and crown. Crowley bit back a laugh as he saw him brandishing a gaudy scepter at the little buggers as he ran after them. He had heard that the family had a small menagerie somewhere in the gardens. The rascals must have gotten themselves out.

Distracted by the the scepter’s bobbing head over the hedges and the incessant nattering animal sounds, Crowley was taken aback as a couple rushed towards him. He turned sideways to give them the needed exit space but he wasn’t able to move fast enough and as they pushed him aside, he felt himself fall backwards, wine bottle flying from his grasp. He tried to grab hold of the handrail but his heavy wings were hell-bent to drag him downwards. He should have felt damp earth against an aching bum but instead he sank into something soft and warm.

“What the fu-” he started, but was silenced by the flurry of black and white feathers raining down on him. He was so mesmerized that he was startled when the something beneath him started squirming. Its indignant and muffled squeaks jerked him back to reality. But it took him another five seconds to understand that he had fallen over a _person._ He clambered to his feet, firing off apologies as he went.

“ _Thank you_ , for _finally_ getting up,” the human intoned. The voice was muted by a set of downy white wings but it was distinctly female. He winced at his unluckiness. She would be affronted and by the morning he would be called out for a duel for bruising the sensibilities of a darling daughter or beloved sister. It would be a spectacle, but the supernatural community strictly discouraged spectacles. Pitchforks and torches could quickly be replaced with muskets.

He offered a hand to help, as she surfaced from her rumpled plumage, but she swatted it away. “I am unhurt and can take care of myself,” she huffed as she pushed herself upright and tried to brush the the black feathers off her clothing.

“Well, that much I gathered,” Crowley said as cattily. She may still hold the accident over him but he will not let her get the last word. Besides, sarcasm begets sarcasm, in his good opinion. He picked at the white feathers on his own suit, letting them join the ones scattered on the grassy floor.

He kept a disinterested air but trailed a wary eye on the fussing angel in front of him. For it was indeed an angel. Or someone dressed as one. Her robe shimmered in the moonlight and white-blonde curls reflected its silver light to form a halo behind her head. An ivory mask with golden highlights was fastened securely to her face. She looked a complete contrast to his own attire.

“Yes, well,” the angel sighed, unsatisfied with her grooming, her anger forgotten. “Now that that’s settled, may I please pass?”

“In a hurry, are we?” Crowley smirked. He stood at the mouth of the low steps. There was more than enough space there for three people walking abreast of each other but with their wings, it would only admit one. Usually, he was all for keeping his conversations short but he found himself unable to let her go just yet. She wasn’t demanding to tell her who he was and had even barely given him a good look. Her insistence to leave was born from wanting to run _away_ from something _,_ if the constant glances over her shoulder was any indication, rather than running to tell someone of her plight.

“I most certainly am,” she whispered intently. “So, please step aside, preferably before our host remembers why he had actually run into the gardens before he chased after his monkeys.”

“At a guess,” he drawled, still staying his ground. “It was to catch the couple frolicking under the greenery a few minutes before, but had miraculously escaped his notice as his precious pets charged this way and that.”

“Quite right,” she replied tersely, sensing his reluctance to move. He brought a hand up to inspect it lazily.

“Were you perhaps part of their little tryst but was just a little too slow to escape?” he couldn’t exactly see the feisty yet prissy angel taking part in something so scandalous, but he’d seen similar humans do it before.

“How dare you imply such a thing?” she uttered with vim. “I was in a wholly different area of the gardens.” Crowley didn’t know why but he found her rather fetching with a scowl.

“Naughty angel, leaving your own lover to fend for himself then?” he sneered. Nothing new there, he supposed. He’d done the same many times.

“If you really must know,” she tutted as she started pacing, clearly agitated at having to explain herself. “I was inspecting the exotic animals. But I heard them on my way to the cages, you know. The couple. Confessing to elope, since apparently the girl’s father only wanted her to marry for money. It sounded so romantic, really but then the host came snuffling along. They tried to conceal themselves but ran into me, instead. Oh, I couldn’t bear seeing the fear in their eyes. Imagine the gossip should they be seen together! They would never have made it to Gretna Green. So, there was nothing else but to help and there were readily available diversions…” she stopped, taking a moment to breathe properly.

Crowley was stunned at the tirade but he felt she knew why she was feeling so guilty. It wasn’t abetting the lovers' flight. No. It was for something much more amusing. “It was you who let the imps loose…”

“Shhhh… none of that please,” they both fell silent. They could hear their host still cursing up a storm at the far end of the gardens. It was interspersed with cackles and screeches from the monkeys. “Oh, I’ve told you far too much. Now please let me through,” she added sternly.

“Won’t,” the vampire said sounding very much like child. “Unless, perhaps you’re willing to ask me sweetly,” he grinned. Her story had taken a number of unexpected turns that he found himself enjoying it immensely. He wondered what other entertaining things would come out of her mouth. She looked ready to address him with a few more choice words but managed to turn her sour expression into that of pure angelic innocence.

“A gentleman will not leave a lady in such awkward situations, surely,” she fluttered her lashes at him and somehow, despite the masks they wore, he felt the tiniest disturbance it caused in the air between them. Heat flared somewhere in his stomach but he ignored it.

“You’re not acting very lady like, you know,” he groused, trying to recollect his composure.

“Says the _gentleman_ ,” she spat, ladling the comment with as much sass as she could muster. He growled at her. The woman was a tease and a bastard to boot! He was being toyed with. A great vampire-demon such as himself should not suffer that fate. He would put her in her place. He would rip the woman’s mask off to better identify who it was to send his next parcel of misfortunes to. He would pin her gaze to look upon the nightmares that are his snake-like eyes. He would bring his face closer, letting her cower, gasping in fear and awe. He would hear her stutter as he presses cool fingers on her creamy neck, feeling the pulse quicken as he leans in to bite her soft, pink, li-… er… neck.

“Excuse me!” a voice called out to them. It was their host, finally fed up from chasing his pets.

“Oh, bother,” muttered the angel, the same moment Crowley hissed, “Shit.” He had forgotten about him and it was already too late to run. He was surprised that his daydreaming had taken him closer to the woman. They would be hard-pressed to convince anyone that their situation was anything but a seemingly intimate moment between an angel and a demon. Acting reflexively, he employed a little of his borrowed demonic powers to cloak them both and dragged her to a secluded alcove away from the steps and the ballroom's doors.

“Blimey!” they heard the host gasp when he reached the spot they've just vacated. “All that exercise must have taken more from me than I would have thought. My head’s turning bloody birds into people now.” He shook his head, then stalked back into manor, muttering plans to either murder the animal’s handler or give them a raise.

“Goodness!” he heard the angel whisper. “Wonderful timing, dear boy,” she said as she leaned over his side to peek at the host’s retreating back.

Crowley grumbled, twisting to look over his shoulder as well. He peered past the patio doors, for good measure, to make sure the man had gone to lower his illusion. Their wriggling brought his wings closer to the angel’s, and neither noticed until they tried to right themselves.

“What now?” the blonde groaned as she tried leaning away from the man in black.

“Careful!” Crowley gritted his teeth. The previous fall had not only loosened the feathers, but had exposed some of the costume’s wiring. And with the contact, their respective appendages decided that intertwining themselves was an appropriate reaction. Crowley studiously ignored their proximity and the heat he felt emanating from the other’s body. He did however, stretch a little more sinuously than necessary as he reached up to pick at the knots.

The angel tried to help but her shorter stature had her tippy-toeing to reach the wires. Crowley could hear her huffing and couldn’t pass the chance to tease her on her efforts. But his grin died from his lips the moment he looked down.

The woman couldn’t keep her balance and she had to rhythmical rock on her heels . It had the very unfortunate effect of jiggling her chest and the exercise was giving the tops of her breasts a light dusting of pink that originated from her flushed cheeks.

Crowley swore internally. First, he had to suffer through an undignified fall. Next, the ruined wings and the scolding he’ll get from the children who made them. And now, his unbidden shock of arousal, on top of the other _niceties_ he’d had the woman endure, might just earn him a good slap on the cheek .

“Some help would be lovely, won’t you agree?” she said scathingly. It worried him more that her attitude was not helping him shake off the thoughts of ravishing her there and then.

“Typical,” he drawled, taking a step back to lean unto the side of the alcove, away from temptation. “Must you women expect men to do all the work?”

But the angel had stopped her bouncing and gave him a dead-eyed stare. With a swiftness he failed to anticipate, she jumped back into the spacious lawn. The force had pulled theirs wings apart but it had also yanked Crowley into falling face-first to the ground.

“Reasonable sentiment, dear boy,” she said calmly as she set her dress to rights. “But I am afraid that if we put our all into the effort, we will leave you in the dust.” And with a sweep of her skirts and a smug grin, she walked back into the ballroom without a second glance to the sputtering vampire on the grass.


	3. If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting

Doves represented freedom and peace, some would say. Aziraphale felt no doubt on the matter as she watched one gleeful specimen perched on a tree branch just outside the manor study. She eyed it through the window with jealousy as it stretched it wings in preparation for flight. It could go wherever it please. It could rest whenever it wished. And most of all, it could not hear Gabriel’s scolding.

“What am I to do with you, Aziraphale?” her brother cried. “Coming home with grass stains on your gown, wings mangled, flask of holy water missing… and still the Duke walks free!”

Aziraphale made an effort to not flinch at her brothers words. It had been a disaster the night before. She had, in fact, gone home before encountering her intended prey. But it was through no fault of her own. She had grown bored of the revelries and waiting for the damned Duke of Glasglow to finally show himself, so she decided to inspect the exotic animals in the garden for a change of scene and perhaps find her pet a mate. The animals had looked parched, the poor things, so she had poured the holy water into some of the animal bowls and wasn’t aware she’d emptied it until the last drop had gone. The flask she dropped when the lovers surprised her. She couldn’t say she had regretted her actions, yet there was always something about Gabriel’s tone that made her feel gravely unforgivable.

“’ _We do not_ _cry over spilled holy water_ _’_ ,” she muttered under her breath, taking pains to subdue her tears. Her brother wasn’t as insufferable when her parents were present.

“Yes, yes. Van Helsing Rule number 404,” Gabriel said tiredly, rolling his eyes at her. “But don’t forget Rule number 183: _When the going gets tough, we Van Helsings get tougher_. You can’t go soft while on the hunt, Aziraphale. Your performance is unbecoming of our lineage.”

Aziraphale was never really one to hate anything. But during that sunny afternoon, she could truly say that she despised her brother’s American accent. It was making her ears bleed.

“Brother, please. I admit that I - “

“Of course you’ll see the error of your ways,” Gabriel interrupted. Aziraphale bit her tongue. Gabriel tended to talk his way through any situation and would block out anything he didn’t want to hear. Her brother had tried courting years before but her mother lamented that despite his looks - strong jaw line, perfect teeth, toned body, dark black hair and mesmerizing purple eyes - he could not land a match. And it was not due to lacking conversational prowess, he could be quite effusive. It was only because, more times than not, he could not leave off listing his own many, many, _many_ charms.

Currently, he was doing the opposite - enumerating Aziraphale’s flaws. She let him, the judgemental sting had become her constant companion for the past few months that it’s normality gave her the skill to tune out his voice. She instead let her mind recount the misadventures of the previous evening.

Aziraphale was adamant the man in black was a fiend worthy to be Lucifer’s right hand. No matter how much he called himself a gentleman, she could not admit so. She stood just within the doors, calming herself and praying she would not encounter him once more.

The ballroom was even more stifling than when she left it. There were more people about and she wondered if the Duke was already among them. She cursed herself for leaving and missing the vampire’s entrance, for surely he would have been introduced to the room. As she contemplated on where to start her search, she heard Shadwell’s yowls.

“Awa' wi' ye! Ye abomination! Ye glob o’ unknown origins!” The insults were addressed to a hunchback - or more likely, someone dressed to mimic a being plagued with kyphosis. Either way, she rushed forward to keep her uncle from doing anything drastic. Unfortunately, to her horror, the older man began smacking the other’s hump which easily fell away. Some of the other guests had taken notice and she used the temporary shock to shove the bystanders aside.

“Oof. Please! It’s me. N-Newt,” the sufferer whimpered, bringing his arms up to shield his endangered head. Hearing the name, Aziraphale further hastened her steps.

“Newt! Are you alright?” she called. Shadwell had stopped his thwacking when the hump had fallen, blood leaving his face.

“I’m alright,” Newt answered, wiping his brows. “Seemed he couldn’t recognize me when I approached.” He collected the attachment to his costume and followed the blonde as she led Shadwell to the edge of the room leaving behind their thinning audience.

“Ah cam 'n' choaped aff his head,” her uncle murmured. “A've murdurred him!” he grabbed Aziraphale’s wing and was staring up at it.

“Has he gone and gotten himself drunk again?” she groaned smelling the alcohol from the older man’s breath.

“I heard he was celebrating his becoming a Sergeant of the Witchfinder Army next week,” Newt told her as he helped ease Shadwell’s grasp on the now very damaged appendage. “Quite a leap, I’d say. Came over to offer my congratulations, but well,” he grinned, patting his hump.

“Gabriel would be furious. He was specifically told not to drink.”

“Nae, lassie,” her uncle hiccuped. “Ah didnae. Tellt me ah cannae dram fae th' tables 'ere, sae ah - ah - brought mah own,” he slurred, brandishing an almost empty flask of his own from beneath his coat.

Aziraphale took a deep breath in, then out. She felt like a glass or two of alcohol would do her good as well, but from the looks of things, the wisest move would be to exit the premises with what little dignity they had left.

“I’ll help you take him to the carriage,” Newt offered, noting her breathing - a tell-tale sign of frayed nerves. Newt -or rather Newton Device, formerly Pulsifer - was a very distant cousin who was the only one in the family Aziraphale could show her true herself. He was also currently the only shape-shifter in amongst them and had been shunned forthwith. The Van Helsings insisted their blood line was pure, despite the were-genes helpfully increasing their sensitivity to spot other shape-shifters. Newt had been told to keep his wolfish tendencies in line so as not to embarrass his relatives. When he married into the Devices, his wife told him there were no restrictions and encouraged him to ‘go wild.’ It had taken him a while to adjust but after a few months, he began acting more carefree and Aziraphale was overjoyed for him.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied gratefully, slinging Shadwell’s right arm over her shoulders. Newt did the same with the older man’s left. Her uncle’s yells morphed into soft susurrations as his squinting eyes finally captured the werewolf’s features properly.

“Newt,” the older man whispered. “Is that ye, lad? Whin did ye git 'ere?”

“We’ve been together this whole time, Mr. Shadwell,” Newt bluffed. “And we’ve both agreed it’s time to go home.” It was an exceedingly marvelous show of wit on Newt’s part. Any mention of a fleeting meeting would have her uncle plant himself on the spot trying to insert as many of his recent anecdotes into the little time they ought to use to drag him home before any more guests cry foul. The were no protestations after that and soon they were dragging the old man outside the manor doors and into the waiting carriage.

“Thank you once again, Newt,” Aziraphale said as they paused to catch their breath from the exertions. “You’re the only one he listens to, I’m afraid. And after your wedding, he’s not been his merry self.” Or more specifically, he’d gone and emptied their pantry of heavy cream instead of his usual preoccupation of tracing witch covens across the London area.

“Thank you once again, Newt,” Aziraphale said as they paused to catch their breath from the exertions. “You’re the only one he listens to, I’m afraid. And after your wedding, he’s not been his merry self.” Or more specifically, he’d gone and emptied their pantry of heavy cream instead of his usual preoccupation of tracing witch covens across the London area.

“He treated me like a son, so I can’t really blame him,” Newt laughed. He indulged Shadwell in his little witch-finder fancies, honoring the were the title Witchfinder Private. Therefore, it was no wonder to the blonde that they’ve bonded quite strongly. “And speaking of my wedding, I’m still a little miffed you didn’t stay after the ceremony.”

Aziraphale stuttered out her apologies. It was the day Gabriel had come back from the continent and instead of waiting for her return the next day, he had sent someone to collect her. The couple had barely finished their first official kiss as husband and wife when a servant ushered her out from the Device’s gardens and into a carriage back home. But he had only wanted to talk of his adventures, there was no need for such urgency. Her mother had been most displeased and had him pen an apology to the newlyweds for such an affront.

The shape-shifter gave her shoulder a cordial pat, silencing her. “The only apology I shall accept would be you promising to stay the designated few days with us this coming weekend.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Anathema left such a… memorable… impression with my brother that he accepted the invitation with grace.” She had been fortunate enough to have witnessed Anathema storm through the manor, the day after their honeymoon ended, and demand Gabriel to _“Stop being a self-important git and if you ever mess with my plans again, I_ will _employ three generations of Device witches to curse you and your heirs.”_

“I never doubted my wife’s charms,” a dopey grin alighted on Newts face. The blonde’s heart twisted at the sight. She was grateful that her cousin found his mate but she could not deny that she felt a little jealous of him. Anathema had accepted him fur, slobber, clumsiness and all. She had never seen a couple more in love than they. She wondered when _she_ would find that one soul who’d treasure her own softness and not simply judge her nature by her family name.

Her musings were interrupted by a loud snore from the open carriage door.

“Oh, bother,” she sighed, stretching her neck to peek at the slumped figure within. “Forgive me, dear boy, but we truly must go.”

“See you next weekend, then,” Newt helped her into the vehicle and waved them off.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, coming back to the present and derailing Gabriel’s monologuing. “I must pick out my dresses for the Devices’ party!”

“Were you even listening to me, Aziraphale?” her brother groused.

“Yes, of course, brother dear. Were you not reiterating that we Van Helsing’s must do our duty for the Greater Good?” Truthfully, Aziraphale had heard not one jot of her sibling’s ramblings but she had heard his speeches far too many times and had diligently taken notes during the first few that she managed to find a generally acceptable and abstractedly concise summary of them. There were no great deviations and she had around ten prepared phrases to cover her daydreamings.

“Excellent,” Gabriel grinned, pacified for the time being. “We’ll make a proper soldier of you yet.” He waved his hands to shoo her off. She gave a quick curtsy and bolted from the room, thankful that she had at least a weekend of good fun ahead of her.

The carriage rattled as it wound its way to the Device’s country estate. Aziraphale looked out into the late afternoon, loving the golden rays as they passed under the tree-lined lane. Light spilled through the canopy and pooled in patches on the road. The grounds were vast and she knew she would love to explore all its little nooks. She did love a good walk. She would likely find a lake and perhaps there would be ducks to feed as she sits at the bank with a good book. She wiggled in her seat at the prospect.

When she arrived at the manor, Newt had rushed forward to greet her. But as the other guests were running about, he could not escort her to her room. She simply smiled and waved him off to attend to his responsibilities. The werewolf was never good with crowds but he would usually get an extra boost of confidence in the days leading to a full moon. She congratulated Anathema for timing the gathering when Newt would be less likely to trip over his own legs. A servant took her to her designated quarters and left her to get ready for dinner.

Sometime later she found herself in a vast sitting room being introduced to this lady or this lord. Anathema had mentioned that the party would be a mix of humans and supernaturals - mostly new and previous clients they wished to keep in connection with. Aziraphale was certain no one would recognize her. But ‘Van Helsing’ was a prestigious moniker, therefore, she believed it best to introduce herself as a neutral party. She asked the witch who readily agreed and was once more renamed a Fell. At first, she eagerly participated in the conversations, greatly relieved to talk about things other than the usual spiel of staking, hunting and general vampire slaying. Corpses were never really good conversationalists. And, according to her kin, the undead were better off… er… dead. But she was an accomplished wallflower and thus took the earliest opportunity to politely slip to the side and take a turn about the room.

She was fond of studying the varied characters of the beings around her. She had once done it to help her comprehend societal conventions she was not regularly exposed to to avoid misunderstandings. But she mostly based her understanding of courtship and romance on novels, dreaming of finding her own prince charming someday. When she reached five and twenty, she finally admitted that she shall grow an old maid, thus turning her observations into a game. She would place words into the guests mouth - quotes from her novels or her own fabrication, creating a unique scene of her own devising.

The blonde was in the middle of concocting a heated debate, about the brain size of marine mammals, between two senior shape-shifters gesticulating by the fireplace when Newt tugged her elbow. He led her to where Anathema was conversing with a guest she hadn’t notice enter. The man was lean and tall with shocking red hair. The shade of which she knew she recognized but could not pin where she had seen last.

“Ah! Aziraphale, there you are,” Anathema greeted with a sly grin. The blonde was instantly suspicious. “I would like to introduce my friend...” she gestured to the red-head beside her, but the rest of the sentence was held back as she noticed her acquaintance’s curious state.

The man had frozen in place, the scowl he readied to greet the blonde falling from shock. She suddenly realized who exactly the rascal was. Despite his eyes hidden behind dark lenses, she was certain they would be as amber and as snake-like as she had seen up close during the masquerade ball. She remembered, yes. But she had only revisited the memory once… well, once _a day_. And once a night before she slept. But as a passing thought! Merely a passing thought, she reminded herself.

The staring then turned into unrestrained gawking. The unexpected reaction made both their hosts’ eyebrows rise. “Er..” the red-head cleared his throat, affected a more dignified stance but his shoulders were a little too stiff to be considered even half-way as disinterested as he willed it to look.

She hid her grin. His surprise was clearly writ on his face, enough to indicate recognition. She herself could not help recollecting his sputtering face. A sudden thought occurred to her. She would not be mean, but a little teasing would not be untoward, she was certain.

“I believe I did not catch your name, my lord,” she asked shyly, affecting innocence as best she could.

“Er…” Aziraphale watched the red-head’s eyebrows dance, expressing a flicker of doubt, contemplation and relief. She wondered what other emotions those strips could tell her if she studied them long enough.

“You may call me Anthony,” he said with an easy smile, posture finally relaxing.

“A little too intimate, that,” Anathema let out an amused huff.

“Last names are rather a bore to remember, don’t you think?” he replied, warming up to the topic. “Too impersonal. Besides, they’re far too repetitive. Easy to confuse people’s identities.”

“It’s far too early in the evening for your philosophies, _Anthony_ ,” Anathema said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Anthony looked ready to continue the debate, so the woman plowed on before he could. “Anyway, _this_ ,” she waved over to the blonde. “Is Miss Aziraphale… Fell.” The red-head stilled at the witch’s reluctance over the surname, head tilting in inquiry.

_Well, we can’t have that_ , thought Aziraphale. “It is a pleasure to meet you, _again,_ ” she curtsied, tacking on the last word with emphasis. She kept her head low but watching him through her lashes. It brought the man’s head snapping back to her.

He groaned the same moment she felt a smirk plaster itself on her face. “Right. Knew you’d recognize me,” he grumbled, carding a hand through his hair.

“I’m afraid I’ve grown exceedingly familiar with your snarling face, good sir,” she laughed, unable to keep the trick up any longer.

“’ _Exceedingly familiar_ ,’ he mimicked in irritation. “That’s impropriety. That is.”

“Come now, my dear _,_ ” she snickered as the red-head blanched at the endearment. “I do believe we’ve already established your views against my sensibilities and I do so hope my opinions on you being a gentleman had reached you that first time.”

“Hold on!” Newt interrupted their little squabble, trying to calm them both. Anathema was shaking with silent laughter beside him. “I take it you’ve met before?”

“She ran into me!” Crowley cried the same moment Aziraphale trilled, “He assaulted me!”

“Voices please,” Newt begged. Luckily, the other guests were too preoccupied within their own little bubbles.

“Assault is far too strong a word, angel,” Crowley growled. The Devices’ eyebrows shot up at the last word but before Aziraphale could voice out a retort or explain the pet name, the dinner bell rang. The red-head took it as a means of escape and with one last haughty look swung his long limbs towards the dining hall without a backward glance.

The blonde tutted. “If he thinks he’s getting the last word….” she grumbled as she followed the other guests for their meal.

She did not see Anathema’s knowing look directed at them, nor Newt’s exasperated face turned towards his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've got one other WIP that should have been updated first, but I've lost someone very dear and I need the fluff. I can't do 'brushes with death' scenes yet again. I'm doing the fluff stuff first.
> 
> Also, I'm not Scottish but found this site, <http://www.scotranslate.com/#>, for Shadwell's dialogue. Not sure how accurate it is but I had fun with it anyway.


	4. The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth

Causing mischief is a talent but the skill to do so is a double edged sword. Crowley delighted in spreading about general chaos wherever he went, watching how his actions would cause a ripple of consequences - undesirable or otherwise - and laugh at other people’s expense or begrudgingly congratulate them on their luck. Part of the appeal was being unaware as to who would be affected, including him. Although he would vehemently deny it, it happened almost every time. He would be caught in the same flow and would more than likely be as troubled as his unintended victims. Like at present.

In defiance of the seating arrangement, he planted himself a little farther away from Anathema and Newt. His rank meant he was supposed to be closer to the hosts but it would mean he would have to answer questions he himself cannot find solid explanations to. And so he took the first empty seat his eyes landed on and began ignoring the entreaties of both servants and guests.He glared at them all until he was left alone, adding more gossip fodder about his unpleasantness. Unfortunately, his rash decision-making brought him seated right next to his nemesis, Aziraphale.

Well, perhaps not ‘nemesis,’ he told himself. It was only that he felt utterly unhinged whenever she was around. He was never flustered. Never. He had been certain that that one night at the masquerade ball was a singular occurrence. But that was before they were introduced.

He knew who she was instantly. Her wings were gone, of course, but she had the same white-blond curls falling softly to frame her round delicate face, the same disarming smile. Without her mask, he could properly see how piercing her blue-grey eyes could be. Her dress was not as form-fitting but he knew he would be able to accurately trace her curves - cheek to heel. He found he had unintentionally memorized them the night of the ball in those scant few minutes looking up from the grass as she marched away from him. He had afterwards dreamt of her, almost every day. She wore her mask each time but it did not deter the many perverted images his unconscious mind conjured, if his evening wood was anything to go by. He was surprised to feel shame with the way his fantasies had gone. He was already in league with Lucifer, he shouldn’t feel guilt from his lusty thoughts. And yet, he did.

He had sent off a fervent prayer that the angel would, hopefully, not recognize him. All in vain. Perhaps the Woman Above won’t take calls from the damned. But it was worth the shot. The mortification doubled by obtaining a name to pair with her face. All he can do presently was to remain stoic. He did not greet her as she was escorted to the seat at his right and his cold manner had effectively kept her from engaging him in conversation. Which was fine by him. He was glad when the servers filed in. Awkward silence could easily be drowned out by clinking cutlery.

Food was a very human concept, Crowley mused as he accepted, played around with, then sent off, the soup presented to him. He had been human once, but that was a long time ago. It did nothing to alleviate his hunger as a vampire. He tried but soon threw in the towel. But when in human company, he took a few bites to help him blend in. He considered all the chewing a waste of time and tried to hide his habit of swallowing his food whole. He much preferred the alcohol.

But presently he was trying his hardest to not choke on it. He was currently on his third glass but had eaten none of the delicacies placed in front of him. Succulent lamb and perfectly roasted vegetables could not hold his attention long thanks to the woman beside him.

Aziraphale was savoring every bite of her food and was barely suppressing her moans. He was transfixed, watching her reaction from the corner of his eye. He was flummoxed that no one else noticed. His own ears could hear every little sigh that she let slip - they were far too suggestive to be ignored. He had imagined the same sounds in his dreams but the reality was definitely better but it was a torturous thing. In the bid to keep his composure, he addressed her with: “I presume the meal is to your liking?”

The titillating sounds ceased and he felt a warring mix of disappointment and relief. He saw her eyes widen at the attention, unsure on whether or not he was speaking to her. Another loss to him, he supposed, for breaking his silence first but perhaps he could goad her into further impassioned debates instead.

After a quick survey and convincing herself that Crowley was indeed speaking only to her, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin then warily answered, “The meat is tender and seasoned exquisitely.” She eyed his untouched plate. “I assure you, you have no need not worry of its taste. Unless you are averse to an ingredient.” This little revelation had her wrinkling her brows. “I may call on a servant, if you wish. Surely the cook would accommodate you with a more acceptable spread.

“And here I thought you hated me,” Crowley fought to turn his smile into a smirk.

“I beg your pardon?” Her blue eyes blinked rapidly at the accusation.

“I seem to remember you saying I assaulted you, and yet here you are wholeheartedly concerned about my health.”

“Yes, well. Perhaps I was too quick to condemn,” she answered shyly. “Can’t you accept my kindness now and move on?”

“Ah, but where would be the fun in that?” the red-head grinned. “And, just to clarify, I find the food quite adequate.” He took his knife and fork in hand and with deliberate slowness, carved himself a piece of meat. He made a show of licking the sauce before taking the morsel into his mouth. He heard a small squeak but as he turned back to his companion, she had gone back to finish off her own plate.

Her cheeks were dusted pink and with the bright lamps and the proximity, he could see the smattering of the lightest of freckles on and around her nose. He was in danger of finding himself addicted to her blushes. He forced himself to look away lest he do something stupid, like reach out a hand. The blonde herself was far more subdued the rest of the meal, that is until the desserts arrived - a decadent-looking chocolate pudding. Crowley saw her eyes light up and noticed her little wiggle before picking up her spoon. Crowley braced himself, but was still bowled over by the onslaught of _very appreciative_ noises.

He cursed his luck. Was it not enough that the woman was infuriatingly interesting and kind, even to him? No. She also had to be unintentionally tempting. The sounds she was making had his whole body thrumming. He kept his eyes on his food, but was clutching at the table cloth, when he heard a dejected sigh beside him. He chanced a glance to his right and found Aziraphale pouting at her already empty cup. Finally abandoning control, his hand moved and slid his uneaten dessert towards her.

“Help yourself, angel,” he whispered, far too breathy. She beamed at him and her smile was the last straw that broke his resolve. Gathering the last vestiges of his self-restraint, he stood quickly and bolted from the room.

* * *

“Anathema…” Newt ventured looking to the seat beside him and worry clouding his features. The witched only hummed in reply, eyes trained on the fleeing vampire and the thoroughly confused vampire hunter. He was proud at being able to read his wife’s expression, but he was presently wishing he was be wrong. She had a look of excitement in her eyes and it did not bode well. She loved playing match-maker, but her current targets would likely make a match destined for Hell. “I know you’ve a plan for Crowley, but please leave Aziraphale out of it.”

She turned in her seat to give the were’s hand a pat. “You said so yourself, she’s lonely and just wants a chance to forget her family ties once in a while. Maybe if we could find her a good husband, she’d be given a more permanent end to her duties.”

“I doubt Gabriel would leave her alone,” he sighed. “But to the matter at hand, I’d like you to understand that I’m not comfortable with playing around with her feelings. She’s been through a lot, Ana. She’s been bossed as a child. And as an adult. I don’t want her thinking her friends are controlling her life as well.”

Anathema relented. She knew very well the feeling of being controlled. “Alright, I won’t push. But I do think she’s destined for Crowley. Did you hear him call her ‘angel’?”

“Shocking, true, but I’ve been the recipient of many endearments myself… granted they were mostly from my mother and Aziraphale, but completely platonic endearments all the same.”

“No, but you see, Auntie Agnes told me that Crowley would be swept off his feet by an angel. And his heart shall belong to her and her alone.”

“Ana, she’s a Van Helsing,” he stressed. “I’m pretty sure their association would be more complicated than that.”

“She doesn’t act like one.”

“Of course she doesn’t and that’s why we’re close. I also know she loves romantic gestures and a good book and that she would give any vampire she meets a sporting chance, so Crowley would be safe, but…” Newt took his wife’s hands in his. “What I’m most worried about is the Duke’s reaction when he finds out her true identity.”

“I’ve never actually expected them to have met already. Both seek only solitude by coming here and the little white lie over their identities would have been acceptable enough, but if the fates keep pulling them towards each other,” she snorted at the vampire’s attempts to distance himself from her interrogations but instead, pulled himself into Aziraphale’s orbit. “We might as well tell them the truth. It will create a far bigger issue, otherwise and at least we could try to moderate Crowley’s dramatics.”

Newt twitched at the prospect of having to restrain an aggravated vampire but couldn’t help but agree with his wife’s logic.

“And maybe then they’d fall in lo -”

“Ana,” the werewolf pleaded. Anathema rolled her eyes then groaned in resignation as they fell on her husband. She had forgotten. No one makes puppy dog eyes better than someone who is, in fact, part dog.

“Alright, I’ll leave them for now,” she mumbled, then brightened. “I suppose I needn’t worry. It was Agnes who predicted the match. It’s as sure as the full moon rising each month.”

* * *

Most of the guests had loped away into their respective chambers and Crowley was sauntering through the deserted corridors to look for Anathema. He had spent the interval between dinner and his meeting pacing in his borrowed room, trying his best to make sense of his riotous emotions and irrational hard-on. He had just managed to get himself together when the butler called on him. The witch had asked him to join her for a nightcap just after midnight. Which meant a few bottles of excellent alcohol not meant for other guests’ consumption, slipping business talk in between. Their minds usually run in the same direction and it was one of the few reasons he kept her company. He grinned, feeling like himself once more.

“Good evening.”

The vampire yelped, jumping a foot into the air. The voice was soft but he was caught unawares. He cursed silently for his moment of weakness but he did let out a couple of expletives when he saw who the voice belonged to.

“Goodness!” Aziraphale cried, taking three steps back herself. “Oh, please forgive me. It was never my intention to frighten you,” she wrung her hands in agitation.

“What, in Satan’s name, are you doing wandering around the corridors this time of night?” he growled. He was usually so careful and it was rare that anyone could sneak up on him. But the angel has done so twice in their short acquaintance.

“I have trouble sleeping most nights,” she confessed with a little knowing smile. “It is also the only time I get to read books without interruption, so I thought I’d seek out the Device’s library.”

“A bluestocking, are we?” Crowley said with a raised brow.

“Quite,” she said but it sounded more like, ‘ _I’m rather familiar with that tone of voice, dear boy._ _Care to elaborate on your opinions on my being scholarly? For I shall not withhold my tongue against your closeted views.’_

“I’ve never been much a fan of reading,” he ventured to say, leveling his response to avoid another scolding. He’s lived through most of what was written in books and he never truly cared to recall those histories. “Too many words. And authors are not very good drinking companions, from what I remember with the little time I’ve spent with them.” They have the tendency to be very perceptive and all had kept writing materials about their person where most of Crowley’s monologues ended up in. He still could not forgive Shakespeare for taking and twisting his words then call them his own.

“My, how small your world must be,” the blonde bemoaned, no trace of mockery just pure interest. “Surely, we could find you a piece of literature that could change your mind.” It was likely she’d had the same conversation before and took such affairs as a challenge.

"Are you giving yourself an excuse to commandeer the Devices’ library?” The gleam in her eyes was answer enough and Crowley laughed. “Well then, I wouldn’t mind a recommendation or two but I’m afraid I have business to attend to at this moment. May I accompany you some other time and take advantage of your expertise in literary matters?”

“Of course! Forgive my intrusion, Anthony,” the name made melodic by her voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow, perhaps?” she sounded hopeful.

“Yeah,” he answered in the same tone, his suave facade melting. She gave him one last smile, bade him a good night and walked off. He watched her and a stirring of warmth flooded his, supposedly too dead, chest. She didn’t know his status in the peerage, why, she didn’t even know his last name! In fact, she never asked. She was too polite to have kept teasing him had she known she was talking to a Duke. And her intentions felt far too pure. He might find a true friend in her. Someone he might one day share his secrets to. He was comforted by the thought. It had him whistling as he walked. The dimness of his surroundings receded. And there was a lightness in his steps.

“Someone looks chipper,” Newt raised an eyebrow as he entered the private lounge.

“I’ve only seen you once like this - when you’ve caused that one pompous Count to fall off his horse,” Anathema rejoined.

“Can’t you let a man be happy for once?” the red-head accepted the glass Newt offered and he burrowed more comfortably into the settee he claimed every time he visited.

“Not technically a man,” the witch persisted.

“Man-shaped being then,” he chuckled, far too buoyant to let Anathema’s ribbing get him.

“Well at least you’re in a good mood,” she hummed. “We needed to talk to you about something.”

“Go on, whatever it is, shoot,” he took a sip of his wine.

“There’s a Van Helsing among the guests.”

Crowley spat out his drink. Dread and anger snuffing out all the warmth the angel had left him. He felt his fangs lengthen and his eyes flash red. Newt steadied his stance between him and his wife.

“You’re perfectly safe, they don’t know who you are yet,” he heard Anathema say, voice steady and calculating. It proposed no need for panic and held not an inkling of trepidation about the case. It was a good enough sign, so he let himself relax, but only just.

“You invited a Van Helsing when you knew I’d be here?” he asked, willing his voice not to tremble. He won’t believe the witch would would betray him. There was more to the story, he knew. Perhaps the scum had wheedled their way in.

“Like I said before, you will never be in danger here. I won’t let anything bad happen to my guests, unless they themselves acted in bad faith. Which leads to the second thing we need to talk to you about.”

“You’ve got a long list of surprises lined up, I see,” he was feeding off her composure and soon his features returned to normal, but his whole body was still as tight as violin strings.

“You must promise to not kill, attack, maim, or inconvenience them in return,” Newt declared forcefully. It was a side of the werewolf he had yet to encounter, but he supposed it was the concern for his wife. He was mad at the witch but he he would never lash out at her.

“Right. I promise,” he intoned, snatching the bottle from the central table and foregoing his glass, took a gulp straight out the bottle itself. “Even though I don’t know them yet.”

“We’ve talked to them as well, but rest assured we haven’t outed your identity”

“To be more specific, they didn’t want to know,” New continued, gradually loosening his stance. “Ignorance is bliss they said.”

“Sorry, but I don’t believe that.” Crowley was clenching and unclenching his free hand.

“Are you questioning my husband’s word?” Anathema countered.

Crowley let out an expansive exhale. Two against one, best let them talk. “Fine! Let’s say I believe you, for now. But will you at least tell me their name?”

“I will reiterate that this estate is neutral ground,” Anathema stated, then softened. “They actually said they won’t mind us telling you, to keep your paranoia at bay. At least _they_ trust us fully,” she said with a pointed glare.

Crowley kept his mouth shut, waiting. He’d find a way to suss them out at some point, but it would mean more trouble for him, and who knows? This Van Helsing might be doing the same, but in secret, to keep the suspicions away from them. He’d hunt them before they catch him, bloodthirsty pieces of sh-

“It’s Aziraphale.”

The name was like sledgehammer to the gut.


	5. When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again

The next day dawned beautifully. Aziraphale awoke just as the last slivers of pink melted into golden sunlight. Years of training honed her ability to stay alert despite the lateness of the hour, therefore she was always in tip-top shape despite hardly any sleep. Her lashes fluttered in response to the early morning beams slipping past the curtains.

She gave a yawn and a stretch, but the smile that normally accompanied the first two had been replaced by a pout. She chewed the inside of her cheek. There was the tell-tale tug of nervousness in her stomach. She was a usual bundle of worry, that much she knew. What with sneaking about and trying to opt out from the many hunts. But her current predicament had its own unique sensation. She turned hither and thither, trying and failing to calm herself.

Van Helsings were reminded that they were well-sharpened tools, each with their own work to do. Gabriel would call them, “Lean, mean, fighting machines.” Every movement following a plan. Every action was calculated. There was no room for “making it up as you go.”

And yet there she was, knowing full well that something along the lines of _Very,_ _Very_ _Bad Day_ was looming over her. She groaned. Unlike her kin, her sixth sense was insistent and was almost never wrong. She had wondered whether they all had the same ability but that she was the only one stubborn enough to follow through. In any case, she could not ignore its call. She may not know what shall befall her, but she knows its essence. Sadly, she cannot force the feeling to leave her. Only when the daunting event has been done shall it relinquish its hold on her.

She rose with a put-upon sigh. She very well cannot stay in bed. Her friends were expecting her for a horse ride around the estate. She paused in her early morning ritual. _Horses!_ she cried in her head. _Of course_. Horses were a pain in the buttocks. The prospect of an aching bum must have caused her bout of heightened anxiety. Nodding at her deduction, she resumed her grooming and called out for her maid to help her dress.

The excursion went well into midday as the grounds were fairly expansive and wilder than anticipated. The horses were thankfully mild-mannered. She enjoyed the outing and nothing untoward has happened. But it meant it did not remove her earlier sense of foreboding. _The day is not over yet_ , she told herself grimly.

The trio stopped by a lake a reasonable distance from the manor house and decided to take their luncheon by the cool waters. They had just finished their meal when a party of five joined them. Pleasantries were exchanged and Aziraphale let the Devices play host. She withdrew a book from her skirt pocket and began reading. The trivial talks mixing with the chirping of birds morphed into background noise. She would have lovingly compared the sounds to those at her favorite park in London had she not been too preoccupied with her story. She was therefore not in the least surprised when she turned the last page, sighed and looked up to an already setting sun.

The orange light glazed over the lake and gave it an ethereal glow. She smiled at the beauty all around her and stood only as the sky darkened. Her horse was still tied to the tree she left it, munching lazily on grass. Attached to the bridle was a quick note from Newt warning her that should she miss dinner, she shall have no dessert. She laughed at it knowingly.

When their parents jogged off for their little tours, she and Gabriel were sometimes sent off to the Pulsifers and many an evening had she been scolded for forgetting supper time when reading her books. Newt could have avoided the same fate, but he resolutely stayed with her and tried his utter most to get her attention. The werewolf had probably called her name more than three times before giving up. He had always indulged her unlike her brother. As they grew older, Newt would tell the cook to set aside her dinner and keep it warm until she asks for it. Even Mrs. Pulsifer had relented to their strange system.

She gave the animal a pat but didn’t get on. The evening felt cool and her backside had been jostled enough already that she took the reins and began to walk back to the manor house.

“There you are!” A voice cried out from the end of the path she was treading. It was a burly man, a Mr. Conner, if she remembered properly. He was apprenticed to one of the guests and had been invited as their companion. “I have waited for your return my lady and worried as the sky began to darken.”

Aziraphale quickened her steps, stopping when she was near enough to ask, “Was my presence required? Had something gone wrong?”

The man was taken aback by her eagerness. “No! No. There’s no emergency,” he hastily explained. “I was simply worried. You seemed out of sorts when we left you by the lakeside.”

“Out of sorts? How so, sir?” He must have been part of the group they met before she opened her book. She scolded herself at not paying more attention to her surroundings.

“It was that you were smiling and laughing to yourself and you haven’t responded to the Viscount.”

The blonde wondered at the title, then remembering who Newt had married, hastily replied, “Ah, yes. He knows me well enough to leave me to my books. As to my behaviour, it was inevitable,” she laughed. “I was caught in the most delightful narrative of - “

“Surely, books could hold no candle to people,” Mr. Conner raised his brows at her.

“I assure you they can,” she answered. The man frowned and it reminded her so much of her brother’s that she instantly bristled at the sight.

“Ah, that would make things easier, then,” Mr Conner muttered to himself. In a much louder voice he said, “Perhaps you’ve yet to meet a person who could bewitch you more than your books.” The man moved closer, she flinched and found her shoulder meet that of her horse’s plank.

“May I remark how your beauty has captured me this afternoon, despite your silence,” he smiled down at her. She kept her eyes resolutely on her feet. It had suddenly occurred to her that they had no chaperone and a walk on a moonlit night would easily be construed as romantic. But the faintness she was feeling was a sign of nausea, not from the intimacy of the moment.

“I am no beauty, sir,” she urged her feet to walk but the man overtook her and blocked her path.

“You are selling yourself short, my good woman.”

“I was in the opinion that I was selling nothing of myself,” she said impassively.

“And that emphasizes your charm,” he added and pressed closer, the horse whinnied sensing the blonde’s agitation. “You appear to be a sensible lady of great connections, so think of my shock to learn you are unmarried.”

“And my status interests you why?” Aziraphale snapped, all politeness crumbling away. The suggestion in his voice was hard to miss but she would feign ignorance. It was not an appealing thought. This man had not even given her a glance the previous night when they were introduced and yet he had the gall to presume she’d excuse all that and accept his not so subtle proposition.

“I’ve heard tell of your reaching spinsterhood, his smile turning sleazier. “And I, a man of charity and benevolence, could not help but offer a means to ease your troubles,” he grinned. “I am sure it would benefit us both. I’m not properly informed of your family but you act rather chummy with the Viscountess and her husband. Not to mention you’ve managed to wrench more than two words from a Duke. And I would be making a falsehood to say that your particular hobby would attract other suitors. Why, it would cause some to run tot he hills! But not I! Oh no, my dear woman, I shall overlook this little fault of yours.”

Aziraphale kept still. It was a marvelous speech. One that was stoking her righteous fury.

“Are you suggesting…” she took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream. “That I marry you so you may gain social standing from my friends?” Her voice was cold and the silver sheen of the moon on her features cast her outlines in sharp relief. She must have looked murderous that Mr. Conner balked at the reception.

“You’ll also be gaining a husband!” he tried pacifying her but she glared all the more. He took a step back and scowled back. “See here, miss. I understand that your chances for financial and social support in these times are dwindling. I can’t understand how you are not ecstatic on such a match. You’ll never find a man willing to entertain you besides me!” he shouted the last with passion.

A resounding smack of skin to skin echoed through the eerily silent night. The slap was so forceful that the man swayed to the side and struggled to right himself.

“That,” the blonde smirked, enjoying the man’s bewildered stare. “Is my answer to whatever cock and bull semblance of a plan you’ve deliriously convinced yourself that I would accept.” She mounted her horse, the only witness to her little tantrum, then sped off to the stables without a backward glance at her sputtering suitor.

Thankfully the horse knew the paths, as her tears of anger blurred moonlight and shadows together. She was to affected that she didn’t see the stables until they almost crashed. She couldn’t brace herself properly when she pulled on the reins to bring the animal to a stop. Her foot wasn’t able to anchor itself into the stirrup and she found herself forcefully unseated and thrown into a waiting pile of hay by the doors.

“My lady are you alright!” she heard a girl, sounding like her maid, squeal. She heard the clamor of more people coming towards her.

“Yes, Mary. I am,” she swiped the stray tears from her eyes. It wouldn’t do to worry her further. “The hay is quite soft.” She gave her and the rest of the stable hands a reassuring smile.

“We were just about to look for you. Dinner would be in half an hour and I knew you wouldn’t like to miss that,” the girl reported as strong hands assisted her to stand. She nodded her thanks and with a bow of their own, they set about taking care of her steed.

“Thank you, dear girl. But I simply cannot get ready in such a short time,” she told Mary as they headed towards the servant’s corridors. She didn’t need a mirror to know how ghastly she must look. Best to keep to the shadows until she had made herself presentable again.“Would you mind sending a message to our host that I would be unable to join them tonight? And can you please ask the cook to send my meal to the library with a good bottle of wine. This rather eventful day calls for one.”

Aziraphale tiptoed towards her rooms, the deserted hallways offering peace. The rest of the guests must already have congregated in the lower levels. She felt exhausted but a nice warm bath would surely wash it off.

“Well, well, well.”

Aziraphale felt an unpleasant swoop in her stomach. She turned and there at the other end of the hall, leisurely walking towards her, was Anthony. She stamped down the urge to smooth down her hair and brush her skirts where she could see the hay stalks that slipped past her initial shake by the stables. It suddenly reminded her of the feathers that clung to her dress days before. She looked up to give a teasing remark but her smile fell from her face as the red-head neared.

He looked immaculate as always but the roguish smile that sent her to sleep the night before was replaced by a scornful grimace.

“Be glad there’s no one else to see you like that. Have you no shame?”

“Wha - “ the blonde gaped at him in confusion.

“Seducing men into the woods then taking a buggering at the stables…” his voice barely rose above a whisper but the acid in his words dripped thickly. “Have a little dignity, _Fell_.”

She had used up all her anger with Mr. Conner and the adrenaline from her hasty retreat had her limping already. “Look, I don’t know where you got that frankly demeaning idea,” she huffed. “You know I am not that kind of person,” she insisted. Crowley had accused her of the same thing the night of the masquerade but that felt playful. This, this was derision.

He gave her one long look then turned his back.

“I thought I did,” he breathed out as he started to walk off.

She ran to her room before the first of her sobs escaped. It was hours later that she noticed the gut twisting sensations she felt that morning and all throughout the day had finally gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They make up in the next chapter, I promise! It's just a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. Please don't kill me.
> 
> I remember back in college when our professors got high at springing impromptu graded recitations for the chapter we were supposed to discuss and the next two after that. Their system was to take a calculator and set it on random - we each had our specific numbers - so we don't know who'd be called, sometimes we'll have to answer more than once. I would wake up and 'know' I'd have to take the hot seat. But it only happened for the challenging, sweat-breaking questions. So, if I was called in the morning but it was a fairly easy question, I'd be forcing food down my throat by lunch. It goes away after I sat down from the intended twisted series of questioning. 😅


	6. For In That Sleep of Death What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley POV of the previous chapter, but it ends on a happier note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised they make up but I've forgotten how much of a mess Crowley can be and the way his internal arguments stretch on. But this chapter won't hurt as much as the last.

Eternal sleep was preferable, Crowley thought, compared to the pounding in his head. He had had very little rest thanks to the troubled dreams that had him shifting in and out of consciousness. But it wasn’t the nightmares of being poked in the heart or the fear of permanent death that would follow after that had him whimpering in his sleep. It was the images of _her._ The depictions ranged from visions of her flushed body writhing in ecstasy underneath him to those of her towering above him, a stake gripped firmly in one hand and mallet in the other, with her arms ready to strike the fatal blow. What was most unnerving was that he found both portrayals annoyingly arousing.

He jumped up from the bed and paced the dark room, seeking solace from the rhythmic movement of placing one foot in front of the other. As a regular guest of the Devices, he was originally provided with a room sporting permanently closed and blacked out windows, a perfectly comfortable bed. He refused to sleep in coffins, unlike his brethren whose heads wouldn’t leave the 14th century. He was, however, currently sleeping in a cleared alcove in the cellars after his drunken paranoia the night before. It was devoid of the ever roaring fire his usual sleeping quarters afforded, but at least it gave himself the tiniest semblance of safety.

He groaned, feeling undeniably glum but frustratingly flushed. You’d have thought dying would have meant he’d have no blood left to warm his corpse, nor a heart to hurt. But he supposed there ought to be the means for emotional torture. That and a soul destined for lowest pits of Hell was perhaps the only payment for his immortality. Though he couldn’t take that lightly. He was hoping his part-time demoning would give him a little leverage after he ‘permanently’ dies.

He scowled and made himself presentable. He’ll enact his plans to spy on the Van Helsing spawn and see how much of a nuisance she’ll be to his existence. He slinked through the hidden servant’s passages and made his way to the guest rooms. His first challenge was ascertaining which room belonged to the blonde. He situated himself in the darkness behind a gaudy suit of armor on display by the steps and waited. He’d be able to see the others as they went in or out of the rooms. He wondered what ghastly weapons lay in wait in a hunter’s den.

In the midst of his lurking, he heard the purposeful stomp of booted feet approaching. He hid himself a little more. A man walked past and a cautious peek showed him the back of Newt’s coat. He watched as the were reached the end of the hall and knocked at a door. When there came no response, he gave the wood another rap and Crowley saw his lips move to call out. After a few minutes, the werewolf turned the knob and stuck his head into the room. His body wilted and the vampire could almost hear his disappointed sigh.

Before he could question his host’s actions, Newt straightened himself, closed the door and walked back the way he came. Crowley quickly tried melting back into the shadows but it was too late.

“You know, you could have just asked,” Newt said, shaking his head. “I sensed you on my way and yes, that was Aziraphale’s room and she’s not back from the lakeside yet.” Crowley kept still. He was caught snooping about but it sounded like Newt was aiding him? He opened his mouth to ask why he was being presented with more information than necessary, when the were answered without his prompting.

“I can understand what Van Helsings had done to your lot, but I also need you to know that Aziraphale is not one of them.” Still Crowley could only stay silent. “I’ll let you get on with whatever you had planned. I won’t tell Anathema, just… don’t do anything stupid.” Another pregnant pause before Newt finally walked off.

Crowley waited until the hallway turned quiet. He could justify his actions to himself but now he felt wretchedly foolish. Newt was but a boy in his eyes yet his acts of maturity could instill far too much guilt in him. He felt as lost as when he had first clawed his way out his grave. Then again, he who marries Anathema Device is no ordinary being. Crowley debated with himself for another two seconds before he stepped out from his hiding place and basically flew to the end of the hallway. No matter the newly formed conscience nagging at the back of his mind, he was an opportunist and would take what was offered gratefully.

Aziraphale’s room, the vampire noted, looked practically unused. The clothes were packed neatly in the wardrobe and nothing looked out of the ordinary. There were no trinkets on the table. No ribbons, no jewelry to speak of. Only a lone hairbrush occupied the vanity’s surface. He paused and quickly recalled the blonde’s face. She wore no rouge and her hair was kept in simple plaits. Her locks held no ribbons, no pearls or other adornments. A contrast to the many women he had met that century. What glow she projected had not been augmented by any of the frivolities of the era. His subconscious suddenly flashed an image of a laughing Aziraphale, gladioli tucked in her hair, starlight reflected in her eyes, looking up at him.

He rubbed his face to peel the picture from his thoughts. He was on a mission. He must not get distracted. He scanned the room once more and felt disturbed. The place did not even smell like Aziraphale and what bothered him most was the lack of books. The woman admitted to being a bibliophile and yet there was none to be seen. Surely she took to taking at least a valise-full of her favorite volumes. If not for the paltry display of dresses, and embroidered kerchiefs he would have called Newt a liar.

He didn’t really know what he expected to see. Perhaps the dreaded stakes, a mallet or two, silver chains fastened squarely to the wall. He rolled his eyes at himself. Anathema would never allow such arrangements. The blonde was a very good friend of Newt. Someone the werewolf would personally visit in her chambers to see if she had gone back from her walk. Surely she would return the favor not bring in weaponry in respect of the were’s trust and attention.

Feeling more sheepish as the minutes passed, Crowley headed for the door but had to leap away as the butler bustled in. The man had his back from the vampire, affording him the chance to hide beneath the bed. Newt may not tell the witch, but the servants might. He tensed as the old man walked nearer, but relaxed as he headed towards the far dresser. He was lugging in a large black bag that rattled ominously. When the butler left, he went straight to it.

All his misgivings returned ten-fold. Inside were freshly polished stakes and a sturdy-looking wooden mallet. He could even see the tell-tale bulbs of garlic underneath. Contrary to belief, the plant could do nothing to his kind, it just gave off the strongest of smells and looked far too stupid for him to take it seriously. He could even eat it. Everything else inside the bag, however, made his stomach roll. He couldn’t see them but he had the strongest suspicion that there was silver and holy water among the pile.

He closed the offending pack and looked at himself in the mirror. Another misconception on the human’s part. Vampires had reflections. He had spent far too much time gazing at himself at one time admiring the pinkish glow his cheeks radiate just after a feeding. At present, though, he was sporting a sickly sheen. He felt a little like vomiting and resolved to flee the room. But before he could, his eyes fell on two hastily written notes on the table top. He surmised the butler had left them along with the black carrier.

He opened them carefully. Both were written by the same hand. The first was a reprimand for forgetting to pack the bag properly in the first place and leaving it behind. A niggling voice at the back of his head whispered that Aziraphale had intentionally left the thing behind. It was silenced however as he read over the other letter. There, inked, was his name:

_Aziraphale,_

_Our men had gleamed information that the Duke and Master Vampire, Anthony Crowley, will be attending the same witch’s gathering. Now, I’m sure you’ve forgotten, as scatter-brained as you are, so I’ll remind you: he was, and still is, your target since the masquerade ball. No, I will hear no excuses about offending your hosts. The visit has now turned into a hunt. We’ll call it Operation Petticoat. Do whatever you could to catch him alone, seduce him if you must, then strike! Simple, right? I expect a full report when you get back. Preferably, one where the Duke is but ash on the floor. If you fail, I’m sending that pet of yours to the chopping board._

_Your doting brother,_

_Gabriel_

_P.S._ _I will not be paying for any more dress alterations, so please try and restrain yourself at meal times._

Crowley’s face had progressively soured as he read over the note and by the time he finished the postscript, he was fuming. But not for the fact that he was to be killed, but for the demeaning way the message was written. Aziraphale didn’t deserve…

He stopped himself. Why was he trying to defend the woman? Wasn’t she just given direct orders to end his life? He snaps his fingers and the first note reseals itself. The other he pockets. What the angel doesn’t know, won’t hurt her… or rather, him. With one last perfunctory scan of the room, he left.

He wandered down to the sitting area to wait for the dinner bell. He tried lounging in one of the seats but found himself restless, fingers and toes tapping to an unknown beat. He eyed each guest as they entered. He needed to act normal when Aziraphale comes back. He was expected to talk to her especially after their encounter the night before. But how could he, knowing what he now knew? He scowled at his own feet then stood. A walk might help.

The sky held the last of the rose-tinged clouds and the breeze cooled his cheeks. He was debating on which path to take when he espied a man advancing towards the wooded path to the lake. He looked shifty and impatient. A clear indication that he was up to no good. Intrigued, Crowley followed.

He strolled casually behind the other, skimming the edges of the tree-lined path - too far off to be noticed but close enough to observe the strange man’s movements. He was the pretentious git who thought he was important enough to greet him without an introduction. He was nothing more than an apprentice tugged along for the weekend. He didn’t bother remembering their names. He appeared to be peering through the darkened spaces between the trees, clucking to himself and huffing from the cold. Suddenly he gave a call. Crowley followed his gaze and felt his muscles seize.

At the other end of the path was Aziraphale. She had been walking leisurely, horse in tow, until the apprentice cried out to her. The shadows made it hard for him to make out her expression but he regarded her eager welcome of the man. Crowley felt bile rise up his throat. He wondered if the apprentice was treated to the same beaming smile he had but fleetingly encountered himself.

He eyed their interaction from a distance. He felt his fangs sharpen when they drew closer together, talking animatedly, looking every bit the smitten lovers. He inhaled to calm himself and made a great effort to turn his back. He held no discretion whatsoever on who the woman chose to meet in the secret or what they might be up to in the dark. _She’s a Van Helsing!_ he yelled at himself. _Her favors would only mean true death for him_. He spat at the ground and forced his legs to bring him back to the manor. He walked briskly, taking long strides to the hall and upstairs to his usual chambers where he was certain he could find the rum he had stored in one of the drawers.

The drink calmed him somewhat and he resolved to take himself down for dinner rather than stew in his misery. Newt might get suspicious again. It was as he was descending the stairs that she appeared through the servant’s passage, bedecked in hay stalks with her dress rumpled and ripped.

Anger flared within him and he couldn’t help but jibe, “Well, well, well. Be glad there’s no one else to see you like that. Have you no shame?”

She looked bewildered but not guilty. _But why would she be?_ The small voice in his head piped up. _She did nothing wrong. She’s not bound to you._

“Seducing men into the woods then taking a buggering at the stables…” he gritted his teeth at the image. “Have a little dignity, _Fell_.” The last name seared his mouth, one of her many lies.

“Look, I don’t know where you got that frankly demeaning idea. You know I am not that kind of person,” it sounded like a plea.

 _No_ , Crowley thought. He didn’t know. But he had wanted to. He desperately did, but knew he could never. The moment they leave the Device’s estate, they shall be back at each other’s throats. He gave her one long look then turned his back.

“I thought I did.” The words fell from his lips. He turned, feeling raw. He resisted the urge to run.

The noise of the crowded room brought Crowley back to the present. He had forgotten where he was nor how he made it back. He watched the smiling faces head out from the sitting room and sighed. He envied their normality at times such as this. But even if he was still a human, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He growled to himself as he stood to follow the others. The night had just started and it felt like it would take a miracle to bring his spirits back up.

He sat at his proper place at the table meeting nothing more than a raised eyebrow. Thankfully, Anathema treated him as if he was in one of his sulking fits, which wasn’t far from the truth. Although he himself could not explain why he felt jilted. Because he wasn’t. He did the jilting, not the other way around.

Crowley scanned the table noting Aziraphale’s empty seat. He knew he had acted foolish and wondered if she would tattle on his rudeness. Anathema would talk his ears off for sure. He flinched when the doors opened. But it wasn’t the blonde who entered.

“Mr. Conner! What happened to your face?” Newt jumped from his seat. All in attendance fell silent as their eyes followed the newcomer’s route to the the head of the table. Normally he would turn no head but the bright red hand print on his cheek was too noticeable. Crowley sat up, tracing the mark with his eyes. He hazarded a guess as to whose dainty hand did the deed and hope bloomed unbidden in his chest. He couldn’t fight his grin as Conner winced while attempting a smile.

“My Lord and Lady,” he intoned with a bow. “This,” he gestured to his cheek. “Is nothing more than the consequence of a misunderstanding. Please forgive my lateness.”

“Misunderstanding!” Crowley scoffed, the makings of a cackle slipping through.

“I was extending a courtesy, my lord.”

“Last I checked, courtesy begets gratitude, not a smiting,” he tipped his recently filled glass of wine in the man’s direction and took a pointed sip, trying and failing to hide his glee at the man’s misfortune.

“The woman knew nothing of the honors afforded her and had acted most unbecoming of a proper lady,” the apprentice insisted. There was the tiniest of groans from somewhere along the table, presumably his master.

“In my opinion Mr. Conner,” Anathema disclosed, not even bothering to look up as the servants began doling out the first course. “You could have avoided your fate had you not been standing within striking distance,” her eyes flashed to meet his. “From what I’ve observed this evening, I believe I know the lady you are referring to. And for such a short woman, I’d say you were standing _far too_ _close_ for her to _not miss_.”

The whole room tensed. Only when Anathema took her first bite did the noise return. The rest of the assembled guests began eating as well, knowing well to discuss the matter when the hosts were absent. Mr Conner wisely mumbled in agreement and meekly took his own seat.

Crowley was well reminded of how intimidating Anathema could be. It was a delight to find another soul cowed by the witch but his smile slipped as he noticed dinner starting with one guest still missing. He fiddled with his spoon, mind running. Aziraphale had slapped the oaf, despite their intimate meeting in the woods. There was a chance he had read the scene incorrectly. Anathema herself insinuated that he had been in the wrong, otherwise the angel wouldn’t have hit the man.

 _Too close,_ Anathema had mentioned. He exhaled to release a little of the burning in his throat. It had been eons since he last used his venom, and he knew it was hardly appropriate to use it now. He needed to distract himself. Unfortunately, the most distracting being was not present. He wanted to seek her out but remembered he had wildly insulted her and that she had a bag full of sharp pointy things that could effectively kill any creature - for who wouldn’t die from a four foot long pole sticking through their chest?

Perhaps he could ask her maid if she was level-headed enough to receive a visitor. _Then what?_ He asked himself. Would she even let him near? He was not at all accustomed to asking for forgiveness. Would bringing her his dessert help?

“Are you alright, Crowley?” Anathema asked, derailing his thoughts.“You’ve been scowling at your plate since it was placed in front of you.”

“I - “ Crowley snapped his mouth shut. What was he to say? Should he lie? Tell the truth? Did Anathema already know? Did Newt tell her anything? His eyes drifted over to werewolf.

 _Newt_. The name flared in his mind’s eye. He could ask Newt for help!

“Er… Could I borrow your husband for a bit?” Without waiting for Anathema’s reply, he stood and dragged the surprised were out of the dining hall.

“Right,” Crowley started off, as his legs began pacing. “I may or may not have said some stupid shite and you told me to do nothing of the sort, yet I still did. You really ought to know by now that stupidity is one of my regular failings. But unlike most times, this one I actually want to make right. And you said that I could just ask. And frankly, I need to ask. I know nothing of the things she likes. Well, there’s books, yeah. She likes those, but which ones? And I don’t have time to buy a bloody book and I can’t give her something from your library. It would sound like I’m stealing from you, right? The only other thing I know she likes is food. So, I can bring her her dinner? She’s not dining with us, I noticed. Oh, bollocks, did that bloke do something to her? She looked roughed up when I saw her last. Would Anathema mind if gave the twat a good pounding? Though I’d rather just toss him out a window -”

“Crowley!” Newt cried scandalized. The vampire stopped his pacing, taking in a proper breath. He had been gesturing wildly about and had talked incessantly, giving the werewolf no time at all to answer his questions which helped him in no way at all. He willed his limbs to rest and his ears strained to hear the other’s next words.

“No one will be thrown out a window,” Newt declared. “And what was it you said about Aziraphale being roughed up? I assume you are talking about Aziraphale?” Crowley gave a curt nod, who else would he be mentioning? “I don’t really know what happened only that the maid told us she would be taking her dinner alone. If you like, I could send your share of the food up as well,” Crowley gave him a questioning look. Newt simply smiled. “I know you won’t eat it all. But you were right when you said she

likes food. You could entice her to eat more if she wished, that particular gesture always makes her smile. And she’s rather fond of chocolate when stressed out. You could give her bonbons from the pantry.”

“Oh.” Crowley said dumbly.

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Er… nothing else for the moment. I’ll go rummage in the pantry then,” his body jerked awake, already turning in the direction of the kitchens. “And I’ll go straight to her room to deliver the chocolates. Mind telling Anathema I’ll be missing the after dinner mingling? Thanks!”

“Hold on!” Newt called to the giddy red-head. “I forgot to mention! You won’t find her in her room. She only stays there to sleep. She spends most of her waking hours in the library.”

“Of course!” Crowley chortled, halfway down the corridor. With a final wave, he ran off to find his angel her treats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to wrangle the next chapter to submission, but the idiots won't stop talking and flirting ineffectively that I left them where they were... for now.


	7. I’ll Ne’er Be Drunk Whilst I Live Again

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, a contrast to Aziraphale’s moody countenance. She had holed herself in ****her**** cozy corner of the library. Newt had pulled her into the room just after supper the first night, sporting a huge grin as he presented the space. It was a circular room at the very back of the massive library. He ushered her through an innocuous archway, barely visible from main hall. She gasped in delight as she entered. The walls were lined with fully stocked bookshelves and it had it’s own fireplace. The floor had a luxurious rug and a comfortable sofa. Newt mentioned Anathema rarely used the space anymore since she was given the estate affairs to see to and any reading the witch did during her free time was either outside to breath in fresh air, or the study while she awaits to be called for counsel.

The werewolf shyly confessed how he asked his wife to turn it into a more personal space for Aziraphale in the hopes that it would coerce her to visit more often. An enthusiastic hug and stifled sniffles later, Newt showed her the rest of the room. Each little detail he brought her attention to had her loving the space even more. It was an official gift, Newt told her. An extension of her sleeping chambers, despite being a floor down.

The commissioned doors had yet to arrive, but she was in dire need of comfort. She gambled on the assumption that the guests would be far too busy dancing that evening instead of snooping into the odd crevices of the manor. She had no energy left to worry of how presentable the room would look like. She had a deplorable habit of nesting - pillows and blankets laid out on the floor with a mug of hot cocoa and biscuits, just in case she felt peckish. She did so every time she was left with books. It was almost second nature to her. Her mother had never been able to break her out of it. Only, this time, instead of cocoa, she had a crate of Châteauneuf-du-Pape at the ready next to her vittles from the kitchens. She had stared at the bottles, but the maid only gave her a cheeky grin in answer to her silent inquiry.

Shrugging off the odd behavior, she sunk unto the carpet the fireplace, letting the flames warm her toes. Her eyes were dry but had gotten redder after a good scrubbing during the bath. She determinedly pushed away the reasons of her crying fit and tried to relax. She heard the library door open then close, followed by the clack of eager footsteps. She did not bother straightening up. Her limbs were far too heavy and she was feeling pleasantly mellow at the moment. The visitor was most likely either Newt or Anathema, who had already seen her in far worse states than at present.

She reclined further and let her legs stretch out. Her ankles gave a satisfying pop, easing a little of the debilitating tenseness plaguing her limbs. An impromptu flying lesson was never a good experience to have. She grabbed a bottle of wine and was struggling with the cork when the footsteps rounded the last bookshelf that hid the entrance to her hidey-hole.

Settling the bottle aside, she twisted around to greet the newcomer. Her salutations died from her lips when she found Anthony by the entrance gawking down at her. She made to stand but in her haste, the blankets she had draped across her lap wove around her legs. Dismayed, she tumbled into an undignified heap on the carpet. But a moment later, she felt strong hands lift her gently from the floor.

“Well,” she heard the red-head murmur. “You went down like a lead balloon.” Aziraphale didn’t even dare look up, hearing Anthony’s voice on the cusp of laughter.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she managed to voice out. How many more times must the man see her in such embarrassing circumstances?

“That now tops the most entertaining greeting I’ve ever received,” she could hear the grin in his tone.

“I assure you you will not see a repeat of it,” she answered glumly as she extracting herself from him and straightened her skirts. She hadn’t bothered dressing up and her hair was undone, clumps still wet from the bath. She knew she looked a right mess. Oh, Mary would be beside herself should the girl hear of her mistress’s plight.

“I suppose it is too much of me to assume you’d ever want to see my face again,” he whispered sincerely. It surprised Aziraphale to hear him so, that her gaze involuntarily sought out the speaker. For all his stretched out height and toned build, Anthony looked implausibly small.

“Pardon?”

“Ngh,” the red-head managed raking a hand through his hair. Aziraphale could do nothing but watch. “Should probably just… guh. Uhm… sorry,” he choked out. “For earlier. Just woke up, see.”

“Woke up…?”

“From a nap!” he clarified. “Erm, I like naps. Just woke up from one. That time. Get prickly, me.” The red-head kept twitching as he explained, and it looked oh so endearing that Aziraphale laughed.

“Oh, forgive me,” she breathed. “Give me a minute.” Anthony waited, lips curving upwards as he let her chortle away.

“Goodness, I needed that,” she wiped the last of her tears.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Anthony asked hopefully. “The things I said were baseless. I’m a right tosser for taking my frustrations out on you.” She could see his earnestness and the heaviness she felt since her bath seeped out.

“I forgive you,” she said a little too softly. She had cried in sorrow, then in laughter and now, she felt like crying through sheer relief. She’d have been devastated to lose him. She blinked away her internal musings on _why_ that was.

“Thank you,” she heard Anthony reply in the same wavering tones. After half a minute’s staring, he cleared his throat and motioned for the spread on the carpeted floor. “So! May I tempt you to sample such a fine feast?”

“Oh, it seems awfully rude to eat by myself. Shall I call a maid to have your dinner sent up as well?” her appetite had left her hours before but had come rushing back at the thought of sharing her dinner with the red-head.

“I’ve, er, eaten my share downstairs. Besides wine would suit me better. So, I’ll take up my glass and keep you company instead. Unless of course you’d rather dine by yourself,” he said hurriedly. “I - I’ll leave. Just give the word and I’ll go,” he motioned to the general direction of the library door, jittery once more.

Aziraphale debated with herself but she could no more turn the man away after his apology than push aside the _seau à glace_. “You may stay,” she assured him. “But I’m afraid I’d be unable to converse decently tonight. I just had a very trying day. So, please understand.”

Anthony hummed his assent and grinned as he flopped into the Aziraphale’s cluster of linens. The blonde blushed profusely.

“Forgive the clutter. If I had known you were coming by, I’d have tidied up a bit.”

“Don’t be like that,” the red-head admonished, as he helped her load her plate. “This looks more comfortable than a bed.”

“I’ve found myself sleeping in a similar one when I was staying in the country or at Newt’s family home,” she told him between bites of food. “Newt would join me sometimes. We’d wake underneath piles of blankets and opened books. He’s been such a magnificent host to me.”

“He and Anathema are of the same mind,” Anthony told her and for the next hour regaled her with the way the woman had inserted herself into his life. He gave her the opportunity to simply eat and bask in the red-head’s charming smiles. She sighed as she finished off the last of her dessert.

“Goodness that was scrumptious,” she announced, feeling content in the dying glow of the fire. “Anathema’s cook does such wonderful things with chocolate.”

“Ah! The chocolates!” Anthony sprung to his feet and out the room. Puzzled but amused, Aziraphale let him go. She could not fault the man his strange ways when she herself had her own eccentricities. She looked back at the fireplace and frowned. She loathed to call for extra firewood when surely the servants were busy with the other guests. She was fiddling with her hair when her eyes landed on her black hunting bag. She had dragged the thing in, along with the note from Gabriel, to inspect the contents. She had forgotten about it.

She pulled the bag closer and was delighted to find several stakes. She had read Gabriel’s letter earlier and had promptly burned it. The shafts of wood shall follow, serving her purpose nicely. She could easily say the bag and the note had not reached her, or the servants had sent it to the wrong room. She swiftly assembled the stakes in the firebox and was feeding the fire with one more when Anthony returned.

He stood frozen by the entrance, clutching boxes to his chest. His smoked glasses slid down his nose, baring his eyes to her. They flicked from Aziraphale, the bag open at her feet, and the fireplace. She had the inexplicable urge to hide the black carrier but surely the man had no idea of its use. True, the bag and its contents were patented by Van Helsings but their trade was far too unique that only fellow vampire hunters and the vampires themselves would be able to recognize it.

“You’re back!” she yelled far too cheerful, flinging the already burning stake to join the rest. “I took the liberty of reviving the fire. It’s gone a bit chilly, you see,” she added nervously. The man was still gawking at her. The silence stretched and she endeavoured to find a way to end it. She noticed the packages he was still holding. “What may those be?” she asked stepping closer. She had half expected the red-head to run off but the man took a few tentative steps forwards as well.

He cleared his throat and took a heaving breath before supplying, “Chocolates. Th-Things I found in the pantry.”

Aziraphale beamed, one hand on her cheek, the other on her chest, “Goodness, are they really?” Books, good food and chocolate! How indulgent her weekend was turning into. A niggling voice at the back of her mind, sounding suspiciously like her brother, was telling her to refuse. She metaphorically burned it away as well.

“Yeah,” Anthony placed the boxes on the low table that had held Aziraphale’s dinner and waved for her to sit back down. “Er, I forgot I brought them with me. Meant to be my apology gift. To you.”

“Oh, my dear, how sw-”

“If you say sweet, I’m taking them all back,” the red-head hissed. “’Sweet won’t sit well with my reputation. And don’t even think of thanking me either.”

Aziraphale smiled at the discomfited man. “Of course, you fiend,” she replied with a mock scowl. “Bribery to keep your reputation intact? Well, don’t mind if I do.” She gave a little wiggle of excitement as she opened the first box. She gasped at the chocolate bonbons nestled within. Resisting the urge to take one, she opened the other. It housed chocolate-dipped macarons. And the last was a selection of chocolate truffles. “Oh my!” she clapped her hands in delight.

Anthony laughed, previous nervousness fading instantly. “They go great with the wine, too, I’m told.”

“Let’s have a glass then.” Aziraphale let herself revel in the flavors. The richness of the chocolate, delectably bitter and sweet at the same time, and the oh so sinful creamy texture as it melted in her mouth had her moaning with each bite. Remembering herself, she turned to offer some to her companion.

The man was gripping the wine bottle hard enough to snap the neck, and he was chugging it’s contents down like it was water. He looked uncomfortable and Aziraphale felt like she’d finally bored him enough to make him want to leave.

“I’m sorry…”

“Hnnn…?” the red-head replied, turning to look at her properly.

“I know this is not the ideal way to pass the night.”

“It’s not - I’m not. Y’see…” the man burbled.

“Anthony…”she broke him off, wanting desperately to understand. “Why are you really here?”

The red-head sighed. “S’just. Well. I saw what you did to the Conner bloke.”

“He deserved it. I made the right decision to stay here, then. Saves me from hearing the atrocious comments concerning my breeding.” Anthony opened his mouth to respond but she stopped him. “And I do not take kindly to pitying remarks as well.” She huffed.

“I will make no such statements,” the red-head promised. “Dealings with the Devices taught me how horrible an idea that would be.”

“Good,” she gritted out. The topic was not a sore point, it was the whole business of turning her personal life into a sport by complete strangers - people who knew nothing about her In the first place. Courtship drama had a way of spreading like wildfire.

“Hmm… seems you’ve got a lot to vent about. Best get that out your chest, angel. I won’t mind.”

“It’s just petty annoyances, dear boy. Surely you’d rather talk of something else.”

“Oh, but it would make an interesting discussion. Tell me, how averse are you with the whole concept of wooing?” The man took her glass and filled it.

“If you put it that way…”Aziraphale nodded her thanks for the drink. “To answer, I’m not at all averse to it, and I don’t mind seeing couples so much, enthusiastic as they are to pair themselves off with or without their parent’s blessing. Neither am I jealous of their station, though I thrive on romantic novels. I just can’t understand why society believes that a woman must be, if not married, then engaged. They look at me and commiserate how sadly I gather cobwebs in my hair. But I see nothing wrong with keeping to myself.”

She let her anger ease out, draining her glass of wine and letting Anthony fill it once more. “But please don’t talk to of Mr Conner now. Gracious me, if I had lesser self-control I’d have kicked him in the bollocks.”

Anthony spat out his wine and cackled, the blonde joining him. The wine had loosened her tongue and her movements. Feeling absolutely at ease she presented her glass for more. They opened another bottle, and made a toast to nothing at all.

“Dew drenched gossamer is a lovely sight, you know.” She said after a while, finding her glass almost emptied once more. She let a half-smile grace her face as she clumsily swirled the liquid, reminiscing. There were one too many instances of trying to get the spiders from burrowing into her own hair that she finally relented and let the little blighters play all they want. At least they kept her company during long stake outs in the cemeteries.

“Wha’s spiders got to do wit’ marreg-, marge-, weddings?“ the red-head bumbled out.

Aziraphale scrunched her forehead, she couldn’t remember talking aloud but felt obligated to answer. She drained her glass and opened her mouth, but all that came out was, “I need more wine.”

“Nonononononono, tell me ‘bout the spider firsssst,” Anthony hugged the bottle closer.

“Y’need to share!” the blonde pouted, making to grab it from the other. Anthony snorted, wriggling away from her grasp and unto the floor. Aziraphale crawled closer, grinning from ear to ear. The red-head’s legs snagged on a blanket. He cursed as Aziraphale snatched the wine from his fingers, miraculously keeping the contents from spilling.

The woman cried in triumph. It was short-lived. Anthony shot towards her, toppling them both into the pillows, and landing himself half on top of the blonde. The exertions had them panting but what little breath they managed to bring back rushed out of them in fits of giggles and wheezes, wine forgotten.

They were trying, and failing, to disentangle themselves when they heard the sound of running feet. There was a collective gasp from the entranceway. All the guests, Newt and Anathema among them, were staring at the pair in scandalized horror.

Aziraphale felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her. She and Anthony shared one glance and grimaced in unison. They knew what the assembled party saw. They would be hard-pressed to justify it all.

Only one person was smiling. And to him, the painful sting in his cheek was worth every minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said flirting, it was just them making a fool of themselves.
> 
> The seau à glace is an ice cream pail. Kind of like this:  
>   
> [Source.](https://www.historicfood.com/Georgian%20Ices.htm)


	8. Now Join Hands, and With Your Hands Your Hearts

They heard the clock strike two from somewhere in the empty halls. They were locked inside Anathema’s study. Aziraphale seated by fireplace, Newt draping a blanket over her shoulders and urging her to drink a cup of tea. Anthony was pacing by the door, wearing down the floor as they waited for Anathema.

The hostess had marched the tittering crowd away from the library and back into their rooms. Newt stayed behind to pry the shocked red-head away from Aziraphale. She herself couldn’t contain her tremors from the ordeal. What would her family say? Her parents were too far away, but Gabriel…

She knew the scandalous affair was already on its way to London, page boys and messengers had been dispatched post haste, if the thunderous hoof beats were of any indication. He’d hear of the news come morning. She groaned. What a complete nightmare.

“Aziraphale?” Newt asked softly.

“I’m alright,” she managed and shook her shoulders. She couldn’t very well turn back time. She knew even Satan himself couldn’t. She pursed her lips. “An amiable morning led to a terrible afternoon which in turn morphed into an ineffable evening,” she couldn’t regret hours of conversation but what happened was truly worrisome. She must sort out her next steps.

“Never have I truly mastered the art of mingling but now I suppose I needn’t bother to. Gabriel would most likely throw me, my belongings and my pet out into the street, all the while chewing my head of,” she mused. She hoped her other cousins wouldn’t be there to see. “Oh, won’t you please persuade my parents of the truth, Newt? They’ll understand. I’ll leave for their sake, at least. Perhaps I can return to Edinburgh. Not all Shadwells are like the Sergeant. And my brother certainly never goes there. It’s far enough for no one to recognize me. Anathema had mentioned a contact there who could hire me as a clerk…”

“That won’t be necessary,” the witch called from the door. The blonde had been talking ceaselessly and hadn’t noticed her entrance. She swept in and clamped a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Because this one will ask for your hand in marriage.” Anthony started to protest but only managed a squeak as the woman rattled his lanky frame.

“Marriage?”

“Yes. That would be the obvious solution.”

“Oh-oh! So I’ll have no say, then?” the red-head freed himself and resumed his pacing a little ways farther from grabbing distance.

“You’ve binned your chance to do so,” Newt chastised. “No one would believe it was an innocent mistake. It was just your sorry luck everyone was trailing back to their rooms the same time you cried out. What would you make of an unmarried woman, clearly disheveled, pinned down by an unmarried man. That certainly spelled out ‘compromised’ to me,” he shot Anthony a look.

“If it were any other couple, I’d be unconcerned,” Anathema muttered in a tired tone. “But seeing as it’s you two…”

“It wasn’t my fault!” the red-head cried in exasperation, hands gripping his hair.

“You’re pinning the blame on me?” Aziraphale countered in a deadened tone. She was feeling numb from it all, the incident had effectively sobered her up and the rush was not a pleasant feeling.

“You offered to show me books, remember?”

“Yes, but then you shunned me for _fucking_ Mr Conner in the stables, despite it not being true,” she heard the outraged yells from the Devices and would have laughed at Anthony’s mortified face had she the energy.

“I apologized!” he screamed back to the room.

“And invited yourself in to dine with me.”

“You didn’t object.“

“Would you rather I had turned you down?”

The red-head opened his mouth but there came no response. Instead, he showed his back to them and skulked in a corner.

“Now that we’ve calmed down a bit, Anathema, dear girl, are you positively sure marriage is the only way?” she tugged the blanket closer, the beginnings of an awful headache making itself known.

“It’s what’s expected during these situations. I won’t have that bloodsucker besmirch your honour.”

“But I can’t marry her!” screeched the red-head from his side of the study.

“Please, Anthony, calm down.” Aziraphale moaned. His volume was not helping.

“Easy for you to say. This marriage will benefit you immensely, not me though. Clearly not me.”

Newt growled. It was shockingly animalistic, a side effect of the coming full moon. Anathema laid a calming hand on her husband. “After all my efforts, this is what I get?” Despite the measured tone, Anthony flinched.

“Look. It’s -! You! But she- ! Fuck! I just… can’t!” the man ended lamely, body sliding down into a deflated heap on the floor.

“Everyone already believes you were taking advantage of her,” Anathema pointed out. “And unfortunately, your fame precedes you. The great rake would never say no to a tumble in the sheets.”

“I’m not-”

“ _We_ know that, but they don’t.”

“Yes, alright, but I still can’t go through with it. She'll kill me,” the red-head gestured with both arms pointing the blonde’s way to emphasize his point.

“It was never my intention, my lord. But keep acting like that and I might,” Aziraphale grunted, the headache was coming on full force and her patience was wavering.

“See! See!” shrieked Anthony.

“She won't,” Anathema rubbed at her temples. “Auntie Agnes won’t need to tell me that and it’s still accurate. But _I personally will_ if you don't stop shouting!”

“Alright, alright. But here!” the red-head rushed forward to thrust a piece of paper towards Anathema. Aziraphale glanced at it and gasped. The paper bore her family seal. She surged up to take it but Crowley retracted his arm, snake-quick.

“Give it here, Anthony,” she said coolly.

“No.”

“I’m certain my brother would write to no one else in this household besides myself.”

“Yes, but Anathema needs to read it first.”

“It is _my_ correspondence and my right.”

“Guh. No!” Aziraphale's eyes flashed. It had Anthony shuflfing further away.

“At least not yet,” he settled. “Let-let Newt read it first if you don't trust me!”

“Oh, believe me, that trust has long gone,” she nodded towards Newt and the werewolf took it from Anthony's outstretched hand.

He scanned it quickly and watched him fume. Both women saw the reaction and although they were of the same distance, Anathema's legs were longer and she was able to reach it first. Aziraphale saw her eyes dart from one word to the next, her frown deepening as she reached the bottom.

"Anathema?" the blonde asked concerned.

"I'm sorry Aziraphale, but in all honesty, I'd rather you not read this. But I'd like to keep things fair. If you ask me, I will. But know that some of the words could hurt you.”

“Come now, it can’t be all bad.”

“Gabriel wanted you to kill Crowley,” Newt reported, taking the letter from Anathema's hands and tucking it into his own pocket.

“That Duke fellow? Goodness, was he here?” Temporarily distracted at why her friends would keep her from the missive, she started listing down the guests she had been introduced to in her head. “I can't particularly recall my meeting him. Unless perhaps he'd just come up? Well, either way, you know I wouldn't dare harm him while in your home. I daresay Gabriel has suck a lack of foreknowledge regarding his decisions. I’ve had to pacify more than a few parties to compensate for his schemes. Does the Duke know? If so, please tell them I've burned all the stakes. Literally. For firewood. They're more useful that way,” she gave Newt a wink.

Anathema guffawed, "Oh, sweetie, please never change."

Aziraphale smiled at her then turned to Newt, "But I really must read it. Please? For I dearly wish to know why I am met with such disgust.” She threw another lanced glare at Anthony.

The Devices looked at one another for a moment before Newt relented and handed the letter over. Their collective breaths stopped as they watched the blonde.

Aziraphale read the missive with a practiced poker face but her grip on the paper threatened to tear it apart. “Yes, I see. Such drastic measures.” She couldn’t tell whether her statement was meant for the planned murder, the threat to her pet or the allusions to her size. “I can see why you’d be upset.”

“Can you?” Anthony snapped. “You see, I’m not just upset, angel. I’m livid.” The red-head closed the distance between them with long legged strides halting before with just an inch between their noses. The movement mesmerized her and rotted her to the spot. “Perhaps I should elaborate…” He brought a finger beneath her chin to bring her face up as his other hand slid his colored lenses up then off.

Their eyes met and in his darkest tone of voice proclaimed:

I am Anthony J Crowley, Duke of Glasgow.”

* * *

Crowley hissed in his head. The Van Helsing chit didn’t shy away when he neared. She barely even flinched when he revealed his eyes. If he hadn’t witnessed her amazingly oblivious ramblings concerning his presence in the manor, he’d have believed she already knew who he was. But no, there came that flash of comprehension and it irked him more that she wasn’t bothered at the very least.

“Would you mind letting go of me, Lord Crowley,” Aziraphale stated in clipped tones. It took him a minute to understand she was addressing him, used as he was to her sweet ‘Anthonys’. “I would like to introduce myself properly as well.” She didn’t move, waiting for _him_ to back off. The insufferable excuse for woman! He took hold of her chin instead, making his position clear.

The angel’s eyes flashed at the challenge and she lifted her own hand to circle ‘round his wrist. In blinding speed, the blonde pushed it away, twisted his arm, pinned it to his back and bent him over to fall on his face. Thankfully, he already removed his lenses or they would have snapped. His nose on the other hand almost broke. The part of his mind yet untouched by the shock managed to save it by turning his head and let his cheek bear the brunt of the impact.

“And I, my lord, am a soldier,” she sniffed haughtily. “Although I wish I was not, I can’t help but appreciate my training during times such as these. Now,” she clapped her hands to get his attention. “There appears to be a pattern to our interactions - you disregard my requests then in some way or other, you find yourself diving to meet the floor,” she smirked. “Hopefully, three times is enough.”

“Ghhhhnnnnn…” Crowley replied as he tried to sit up. He begrudgingly admitted it was a recurring event. But only in his head. Never out loud. He could at least hold on to his pride. If there was any left.

“I’d rather get all this over with, so please do not interrupt me,” she narrowed her eyes at him as he crawled to the nearest chair - his legs were not cooperating and his pants felt mindbogglingly tight. “I understand you’ve known me who I am for a while, but I shall repeat it. I am Aziraphale Van Helsing, certified vampire hunter.” The red-head groaned in his seat and received a smack from Anathema. “Yes, well. I see your reluctance in the union and I won’t judge. Heavens, a vampire and a vampire hunter. What a pair we would be. In any case, I’d like to mention that I have yet to kill a single vampire with my own hands, but it does not follow that I can’t. But I swear I will not lay a finger on you nor use my skills to force a marriage you vehemently do not want.”

“But you still need to marry each other,” Anathema rejoined when it appeared Aziraphale had done her speech. “It’s a scandal. The men and women of the ton would loudly proclaim it and attract the Dark Council,” she hissed. “Your true identity is in jeopardy and to veto _your_ laws would mean ruin or worse, death.”

“Also, please take note that I am Aziraphale’s cousin and, therefore, her kin,” Newt added helpfully. “If you dare wriggle away from the responsibility, I will personally lead the manhunt for your head,”

“You won’t need to because I’m already a target,” the vampire grumbled, finally wrangling his voice back into working order. “I’ve seen how her family hunted. You only point and yell ‘vampire’ and they jump to it like rabid dogs.”

All four stewed in their own thoughts as the clock called another hour.

“I’m still amenable to my disappearing act,” Aziraphale joked to break the ice.

Crowley groaned. “No, Anathema’s right. I’m as good as dead to my side and yours. If I’d been a simple mortal man, this wouldn’t feel as damning as it does. ”

“Mortal?” the blonde whispered, he could the wheels turning in her head. “Maybe we could find a way.”

“And that is?”

“I convince my brother that you are a mortal man, not a vampire. And he’ll let you be. They are still conflicted on whether or not you are Nosferatu. Their logic is, if you die by stake of holy water, you are. Which, even I admit, is not a sound deduction process.”

Crowley hasn’t enough strength to try and make sense of Van Helsing logic (beside Aziraphale’s), so he let’s it fly past his head and insisted, “But he’ll notice how peculiar my habits are when he visits or we make house calls.”

“Have you read my letter?” she laughed, slightly crazed. Crowley gritted his teeth. So, she had been affected by her brother’s jabs. “He’d be thrilled to have the opportunity to be rid of me! Even married to a prestigious noble would hardly change their opinion - the bumbling buffoon that I am to them. I bet he won’t even offer a dowry for my sake.”

“That’s -” Crowley started to say.

“She’s right,” Newt sighed. “It’s the most likely scenario. I’m sure he won’t even let you through the door if you try to visit. But Anathema and I would be more than willing to take care of things.”

“I’m not totally broke, though!” the blonde briskly mentioned. “I have investments…”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema soothed. “You won’t need to do that. I already consider you as a sister. Please let me take care of you.”

“Would it even work?” Crowley couldn’t help but be skeptical.

“We could only try,” Aziraphale offered. “Unless you have one single better idea?”

The red-head mumbled a negative.

“It’s settled. That just leaves Crowley to ask for your hand,” Anathema grinned. “We’ll leave you to it.” She rushed Newt out and closed the door behind them.

“Er…” the vampire turned towards the blonde. She looked as panicked as he. Trust Anathema to drop such a statement. It was the first time they were left alone since the library. To call the silence awkward would have been an understatement.

“See here, dear boy,” Aziraphale squeaked out, before clearing her throat. “We could simply call this an arrangement of sorts. I am human. We are worryingly fragile and we age rapidly. Time to an immortal is inconsequential, is it not? A few years and you’d be free of me. You don’t need to go through all the formality.”

“I’d decide that for myself, thanks,” Crowley wheezed out. He wanted to. Staggering as it was, he actually wanted to ask her. “Bugger, I’m growing soft,” he hissed lowly to himself. He slid closer and offered a hand. The woman’s eyes widened, cheeks blooming in the shade of pink he’d painted on her in his dreams.

“Aziraphale…” he whispered then gulped.

The next four words were stuck in his throat. Just four fucking words and sod it all, he blessedly felt nervous. He knew she’d say yes. They had a plan. It was her plan. The plan. Bloody fuck. Why, in Satan’s putrid breeches was he shaking? He was screaming internally and with monumental effort decided to just blurt out the question before he embarrass himself further. He could already feel the tell-tale sting of tears.

“Will you marry me?”

He heard a tiny intake of breath, as if even the angel couldn’t believe what was happening. _Please say yes, please say yes_ , that voice in his head chanted. A wild thought crossed his mind - she may have thought of the plan but she could still say no. The seconds ticked by and his fingers were vibrating irrepressibly. He made to close them, started to bring his cramping limb back to his side, when the blonde’s plump hand eased its way to grip his.

“ **Yes.** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are free to squeal in the comments! 😆


	9. Thou Hast Me, at the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Gabriel being himself.

Rain spattered against the windows, a horrible contrast from the day before. Aziraphale was nursing her third cup of tea in the sitting room as she waited for Gabriel and Anthony. Her brother arrived early that morning making such a ruckus that more than one guest poked their heads out to investigate. She was thankful for the weather as it kept everything dark enough for the vampire to safely saunter his way around the manor. She grimaced. He looked ready to collapse the last she saw him. And that was only fifteen minutes ago.

She wasn’t certain how many hours vampires could stay awake during the day but she was sure Anthony needed rest. The previous night’s excitement had her wishing to sleep in until noon. She was greatly tempted to walk into Anathema’s study and rescue her fiance from her brother’s unstoppable mouth.

Gabriel had stormed in, demanding her to tell him that the Duke of Glasgow was safe. It appeared that his informants had made a horrible mistake and that the man was innocently human. Aziraphale diligently kept her own counsel on this account. He then proceeded to enumerate the disadvantages of having murdered him and the need for him to make his acquaintance while he had the chance.

Feeling relieved, Aziraphale reported that she had not harmed a single hair on his head. Contrary to her expectations, her brother fumed at her incompetence on a job that was supposed to have been done and over with the moment his note had reached her.

Unable to follow Gabriel’s spiraled thoughts, she ignored his speech and then proceeded to relay the ‘incident.’ She had been graced with a minute of silence before being bombarded by a slew of curses. It had alarmed a passing maid who hastened Anathema over.

The blonde sighed, there was no winning against Gabriel Van Helsing.

She snapped out from her musings as her brother’s voice drifted down the halls and grew in intensity. Clearly he was agitated with the whole affair - a default, concerning things involving her. She stood as Newt led Gabriel over. Crowley was no where in sight. Perhaps he had gone back to his rooms to retire for the day.

“I had to clean up your mess again,” her brother said in greeting. “You just had to drape yourself all over him, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale gaped. “I did no such thing!”

“How else would this happen, then?” he spat in her face. Newt tensed, but kept his place. It would only stoke Gabriel’s ire should he come to take her side and no one in the household would be left in peace.

“You demanded,” she said in a measured tone. “That I was to get closer to him, whatever it takes. I have the very letter you sent!” she almost screamed. Gabriel only scoffed, but a blush on his cheeks suggested he had forgotten the specifics of his note.

“Don’t blame this on me, sunshine,” her brother retorted with vim. “I had hoped to turn him a patron to our cause, but now he’ll be forced to spend the rest of his days with someone as uninteresting as you. I’d never be able to charm him after this, and all because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself!”

“And I’ve said before and shall say it once more,” Aziraphale gritted her teeth. “It was all a grave misunderstanding. The other guests found us at the right place, in the wrong time, and in the wrong position. Lord Crowley knows his own name’s in the line but thankfully he was gracious enough to save _my_ reputation, despite the untruth.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” her brother waved her words away.

“Excuse me,” Came a growl from the doorway. It was Anthony, scowling at Gabriel like some horse dung he had accidentally stepped on. He had Anathema beside him, barely containing her own rage.

“I must warn you from belittling my soon-to-be wife,” lightning struck casting Anthony’s imposing figure in stark relief. “She is the perfect lady despite my being a less-than-perfect gentleman.”

“Lord Crowley! It’s not what it sounds like! It’s a sibling thing, you must understand. It’s simply that I’ll miss her terribly when she leaves.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Anathema mutters from her spot.

“I don’t care. Such language towards the woman who shall bear my name is outright disrespect towards me as well,” he gave him one last disdainful look. “Now, I have other matters to attend to, so restrain yourself.” He nodded at the Devices and left Aziraphale a casual kiss to her hand before turning to go.

Dropping his pacifying facade, Gabriel rounded on Newt, the only other person he could bully. “Tell him if he wants to marry her so badly, he should do it by tomorrow or else I’m taking her back.”

“If you had given him time to explain our plans instead of listing your ‘accomplishments’ in the hopes of saving your family name, you would have known that the wedding would be this evening,” Anathema piped up, inspecting her nails. “It’ll take place in this manor’s chapel room when all the other other guests have gone, for privacy’s sake. The local parish was already informed. There shall be no wedding reception or dinner to be had to save time as they start their journey to Crowley’s townhouse as soon as the ceremony ends.”

“Alright but I’m not paying - “

“Aziraphale’s dress is on its way from my seamstress, they’ll touch it up later in the day. We’ve sent her maid to take care of her things back at London and deliver them to Crowley’s country estate. As I gathered from your conversation in the study, he was willing to take your sister for no dowry whatsoever,” Anathema had been peeved at being told to leave her own study for the ‘men’ to discuss. She did, out of pure need to make things go smoother but left a gap in the doorway to eavesdrop. “And we would be willing to take care of any other expenses needed for the wedding.”

“We’ve prepared a room for you to rest in the meanwhile, food shall be sent up and we’ll call you before the wedding,” Newt ticked off. “For all other needs, you may call for our butler. In the meantime, I suggest Aziraphale and Anathema go about their preparations and I shall do my bit as well.”

“I still need to talk to -”

“My lady,” the butler called from the door. “The seamstresses are here.”

“Perfect timing,” Anathema laughed, grinning at Gabriel’s frowning face. “We must leave you gentlemen. Ladies and dresses, you understand.” She grabbed Aziraphale’s elbow and led her out before the other Van Helsing could stop them.

“Thank you, my dear,” the blonde sighed as they walked farther and farther away.

“If it were left to my wishes, I’d have this wedding the most lavish I could make,” Anathema pouted. They’ve reconvened to take care of the wedding logistics after Crowley’s proposal and all agreed that urgency is of utmost priority. Scandals were a messy business.

“I’ve never believed I’d be married at all,” Aziraphale mused, snaking her arm around the witch’s. “This is already more than what I’ve hoped for.”

They walked to her room and was asked which among the dresses they brought she preferred. There were but a dozen on offer but she chose one of a gleaming white satin, ribbons of blue and gold adorning the hem, waist, collar and sleeves - reminiscent of a certain other dress she had once worn. But this time, she had no mask to hide behind.

The gardeners came in as they finished with the fittings, bringing in a baskets of flowers, asking her which she most wished to put on her hair; which they would turn into the wedding bouquet; and which they would strew along the aisle for her.

Crowley’s man of business called in a few minutes later, asking her preferences for any instructions she would need to send out to prepare the town house for her arrival. She told him that she trusted his judgement and gave him a smile to send him off. The man had looked stunned and confused but bid them farewell.

Anathema had kept her company all through out, offering advice when asked, but left the final decisions to her. It had felt wrong in the beginning, too used as she was to being told what to do during big events, but the witch simply gave her an encouraging smile each time she turned her way. They parted with a hug, mutually acknowledging the need for some shut eye.

Had the circumstances been positively better, Aziraphale knew she would have not been able to sleep a wink. And yet the proceedings of morning and the exhaustion of dealing with her brother helped immensely. She awoke to the soft rap of the maid upon her door only given a second of indulgence to marvel at knowledge of her engagement before being swept away to get ready.

“Aziraphale, a moment,” Gabriel tapped her on the shoulder just outside the chapel doors. “I must be frank with you,” he said solemnly. “I don’t like your new husband.”

The blonde sighed. He found no overbearing kinship with Anthony and thus his wish to alliance himself with the vampire had shattered. _Typical_ , she grumbled internally.

“Ga-”

“We’re ready,” interrupting the butler. He positioned himself by the doors ready to throw it open and usher them in.

Gabriel took her hand and trapped it within the crook of his arm.

“I’m merely implying that the man is of too high a rank to not hear a thing or two of our enemies,” he mumbled in her ears as they started the walk down the aisle. The room was massive, pews lining either side. Anathema mentioned it was a running joke to have such a chapel for a family of certified witches. But it served its purpose - the space not sat atop holy ground meant Anthony could walk in unharmed.

Aziraphale gritted her teeth. Her brother had no respect for the occasion. True, it may have been a marriage of convenience but it was still a marriage - her marriage to be exact. And yet the man kept talking. Her only saving grace was that there were but a handful of guests - the Devices, Crowley's man of business and the parson - who were far enough to not hear him.

“He might be in cahoots with the undead, certainly his quarter had never called for our services. You need to watch him carefully.”

“Yes, Gabriel,” she intoned archly. There was no escape from her brother’s scheming. And agreeing with him was the only way to keep it from dragging on for too long.

“I'll send you a steady supply of hunting gear. Don't lose them.”

“Yes, Gabriel,” she answered, paling at the thought of what her new husband would think of the instruments when it comes. She must think of a way to send them off before they reach the door.

“Write to me when you find something out.”

“Yes, Gabriel.” Oh, when will the blasted aisle end? Her feet felt like lead. Her brother might be giving her away, but her family’s chains on her were kept tightly bound around her ankles. It was a sickening feeling. The man hissed out instructions until the very end, when the bridegroom was but a few steps away.

“Here,” Gabriel dropped her hand into Crowley’s with a smirk. “Hopefully she’ll be more useful with you than she was at home.”

The silence following the speech was heavy . She felt the red-head’s hand grip hers, making her flinch from the pain.

“Well, I’ll certainly try to keep her in line,” Anthony grated out menacingly, dark, frustratingly unreadable glasses turned her way.

_Ah_ , Aziraphale thought. _It seems they would be starting off with the ‘for worse’ part of the marriage, then_. _And the ceremony hasn’t even begun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little late, but Gabriel was being a massive thorn. I kept throwing my hands up and just... leaving it off until I was calm enough to edit out the most frustrating bits. I had to do one shots for a few Tumblr prompts to get me back in the writing mood.


	10. He Is the Half Part of a Blessed Man, Left to be Finished By Such as She

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My notes for this chapter was:
> 
> Crowley is mad, Aziraphale is sad and they make a scene in front of the altar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of off-screen deaths, because plot. (Believe it or not, there is a plot. 😁)

The parson droned on and on as Crowley tried not to fidget, although he was certain it wouldn’t have mattered. He ignored the dull ache in his stomach and the dryness of his throat, the sensations distracting him. It had been days since he’d had a feed and the stress of the last few hours weighed him down.

He glanced at his bride and studied her profile. She was resplendent in her ivory gown; face clean and free of any powder or rogue, tinted only by her natural rosy blush; snowdrops and forget-me-nots adorned her hair; and she clutched a bouquet of white roses interspersed with red gladioli and apple blossoms to her chest. He wondered whether she knew their meaning. She was a vision and he suddenly felt a different kind of hunger surge in him. But he stomped the feeling down. It was the same foolish thoughts that had borne into the present predicament.

He swore at the previous evening’s mishaps and the utter nonsense of the morning after. He had talked, or rather listened, to Gabriel Van Helsing and almost burned his ears off. The man was more presumptuous than he had imagined. He had kept an ongoing tirade of his fight against the forces of ‘evil’ when Crowley knew that their lot gave no vampire a fighting chance. London's vampire community had been horribly caged by the vampire hunting clan, the less fortunate emerging only when they were too ravenous. This had caused many unnecessary human deaths as hunger superseded any kind of control over regulated blood consumption. The Dark Council had to call in reinforcements when said feeding sprees arise, the reason he had first been called on to town. The number of prostitutes lining the streets had reached papers and they had been hard-pressed to corral the perpetrators. He seethed where he stood, noting his own hunger.

He noticed Aziraphale’s eyes flick towards him. He wasn’t fast enough in schooling his features and she paled from his dark look. She squared her shoulders minutely and turned back to the parson, this time looking calm and determined - an expression most suited for a coming battle than a wedding. But then again, she was to be wed to a vampire. She must be wondering how many of his kind would greet her when they return to London. He didn’t have many friends and those that came by were for business. He knew by now that the news of their marriage would have spread like wildfire to both the human and underworldly circles. He must brace himself for the ridiculing (not that he would let them), and the possible threats to his wife’s life (where they would need to crawl over his dead un-dead body to enact).

He grimaced, the reality of the happenstance settling in. A Van Helsing! He was minutes away from marrying a Van Helsing. The madness of it all made him grit his teeth. He was roused from his thoughts when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked up to see the blonde’s terrified look. Puzzled, he looked over at the parson, frowning down at him. A glance behind him showed Anathema rubbing her face fiercely in frustration, a low groan escaping her.

“Wha -” he began but the blonde spoke before he could finish his question.

“So… you don’t want to go through with this then?” she asked, monotone. He could almost hear her spine clicking to straighten herself more than she already had.

“No!” he yelled, then flinched as his voice echoed through the almost empty space. “I mean yes - I mean. I want to marry you -”

The parson cleared his throat to silence him. “I shall repeat myself,” he stated. “Do you, Anthony Crowley, Duke of Glasgow, take this woman, Aziraphale Van Helsing as your lawfully wedded wife?” he finished, raising an eyebrow high enough to meet his hairline.

_ Ah,  _ his brain supplied _ , he missed his cue. Shit. No wonder. _

“I do,” he answered clearly and loudly. The few guests breathed out in relief. He could feel Anathema’s murderous glare at the back of his skull. He wasn’t looking forward to their goodbyes later on.

The parson then turned to the bride and repeated his question with an almost pitying glance. Crowley cursed himself once more and turned to face the blonde as well. She looked torn, body angling to flee from the chapel. Desperate to keep her there, Crowley shot out a hand to take hers and gave it a pleading squeeze. He heard her rattling breath and saw her close her eyes. He counted to five before he heard her whispered, “I do.”

The officiant speedily closed the ceremony, clearly wanting to brush away the awkwardness that lingered in the space. But when they reached the kiss, Aziraphale sputtered. Wanting to make up for his folly, Crowley gently pulled her close and slowly brought his lips to meet hers.

He tried to forget how much those lips had haunted him since the day they met, but their softness addled his brain functions greatly. Only the word ‘more’ registered in his mind, controlling his tongue to make the kiss less chaste with every second that ticked by. A moan escaped the blonde as the appendage caressed her lips and snake its way into her mouth. He had never visited Heaven, nor would be ever allowed in, but with sudden clarity, he knew Aziraphale’s kiss was the closest he had to the experience. He let out a shuddering sigh and started angling their bodies to further aid the need to take his angel into the wildest throes of passion when Gabriel gave a cry.

“I know you’re not one for keeping your dignity, but are you really planning on consummating your marriage in a house of God?”

The newlyweds jumped away from each other, Aziraphale looking impressively flushed. Crowley licked his lips begrudgingly thanking Gabriel for the interruption before he’d done something worthy of another scandal. He heard a chuckle from the parson and couldn’t help his own grin from surfacing.

He waited for Aziraphale to straighten her dress, face turned down but ears still flashing scarlet. He took her hand once more and secured it to the crook of his arm before leading her out the chapel doors, through the manor’s halls and to the waiting carriages.

Crowley kept her by his side as they received the hearty congratulations of the Devices who had trailed after them. When Gabriel stepped forward, he purposely steered them towards the house staff lined by the entrance to wave them off. He addressed the group in jovial tones, naming them incorrectly but they, being as perceptive as their mistress, went along with his antics and herded them slyly towards the open doors of the carriage before the oldest Van Helsing could reach them.

They threw out their final farewells and Aziraphale's bouquet as the horses began moving. As it turned to trek the darkened road, the blonde let out a giggle.

“You were merciless, I’ve never seen Gabriel so speechless,” it was supposed to have been a reprimand, but laughter shook her frame and she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief Crowley handed her.

He slouched further into his seat and let out a heaving sigh. “Locking me up with him this morning was torture. Never again,” he chuckled.

“Poor thing,” the blonde smiled at him. “It must have been most distressing. You certainly deserve a nap after that for surely he had kept you from sleep for far too long.”

He grunted in agreement and silently eased himself closer to the blonde. She didn’t move and he closed his eyes, willing his heart to still its beating. He was comfortable in that tiny space, content to keep them from any mention of the kiss and the expectations for the evening. Strains of a lullaby reached his ears, lilting tones washing over his tired self. He felt himself unwind, enjoying the aira his angel performed just for him. He let himself be calmed and despite his previous nerves he found himself dozing.

He startled as the carriage slowed to a stop in front of his town house - a marvelous four-storey mansion in the posher side of London. The front gardens were dark but Crowley knew each and every leaf was set perfectly, if they knew what was good for them. The windows in the upper storeys were blackened and empty but the ones below let out a welcoming glow. By the front door stood his housekeeper, Madame Tracey. In her colorful shawls and bright red hair, she glided towards the couple as they disembarked.

“Ooohhh. I never thought I’d live to manage the house alongside a mistress,” she cooed at Aziraphale. “And such a pretty one, as well.” The blonde blushed but smiled shyly at her.

“Yeah, well. Madame Tracey, Aziraphale. Aziraphale, this is my housekeeper, Madame Tracey,” he introduced them gruffly, sleep trying to recapture him. He yawned and swayed as they entered the reception hall but the next words out his housekeeper’s wife roused him quickly.

“Beautiful blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Goodness! Are you the angel my lord kept meeting in -”

“Madame Tracey!” Crowley stopped her. “Is dinner ready?” He had forgotten how the woman heard his whimpers throigh his bedroom doors as he slept. After the third day she cornered him to tell her who ‘angel’ was, concerned that his nightmares were too recurring and had offered to brew him a potent sleeping drought should he needed. He gave her a carefully worded explanation, unable to explain his desires to keep his dreams, and a brief statement of an annoying encounter with an angel to hold her tongue but he knew she bought none of it. He added thicker drapes to his four-poster bed to shield his voice after that.

“Oh! They’re warmed and waiting. Shall you eat in the dining room or shall I send them up to your rooms?” she asked with a conspiratorial wink.

"Er, rooms, I think," Crowley choked out. They haven't exactly discussed what would happen after the wedding. It didn't help that his mind was already replaying their first kiss and the blonde's moans. Before it went further, however, there came a frantic rapping at the front door.

Madame Tracey made to open it and ushered in a harried looking teen sporting the Dark Council's emblem at the front of his messenger's coat.

"Urgent meeting, my lord," the boy announced, handing him his missives, then scampering off to his next destination.

"Oh dear," Madame Tracey frowned. "And on your wedding night as well."

Crowley hissed as he read through the letter, eyes widening at the news. It appeared that a number of the Dark Council's surveillance team were attacked from their posts. They were the supernatural equivalent of police officers in the city and nothing was left of them but a few bits and pieces. His stomach churned. This was no mere prank. It was a calculated plot, but who in their right mind would strike-

His eyes fell on the blonde and clicked. Van Helsings were ruthless enough. How they found the careful officers, he knew little, but felt it the most possible scenario.

"We're to stay indefinitely. No travels until things are sorted out," he ran a hand through his tussled locks, mood plummeting. "I'll have someone call your things back," he told the blonde. "Sort out which you'd be needing with you here and which you'd be comfortable sending off to Glasgow."

"Is everything alright?" Aziraphale asked, brows knit in agitation, mirrorring the Duke's.

"You look at me and tell me if I look 'alright'," Crowley snapped, making the blonde step back. He wondered how everything could go wrong in three days.

"My lord, that's no way to talk to your wife!" Madame Tracey admonished.

"That's for me to decide!" he yelled back, brandishing the papers in his hand. "And it's also well within my authority to keep her on house arrest."

"Hold on -" Aziraphale frowned.

"You're to stay here. No letters, no excursions, no visitations."

"Yes, keep Anathema and Newt away," she quipped, tone icy. "I'm sure they'd let me wither away in an unfamiliar household with a vapid husband hiding me in the shadows."

Crowley groaned. Anathema would kill her for locking the blonde up, but he had no choice. "This is for your own good."

"Oh? How, pray tell?" she asked levelly.

Unwilling to expound on the details in front of Madame Tracey and her motherly tendencies, the red-head handed her the letter. Her eyes widened in horror, then turned steely.

"I had no hand in these deaths, I can't see why I'm to be imprisoned."

"Your family -"

"I have left behind," she finished for him. "When I said 'I do.' I am now a Crowley," she spat vehemently. "So treat me like one."

"The Council's surveillance squadron was decimated, Aziraphale. No matter what you say, you are still a Van Helsing and possibly connected to these murders. If you want to help, then stay in here and out of my affairs."

"Ah, yes. For better or for worse."

"This marriage is a sham, you know that much," the words fell unbidden from his mouth and he felt the sting as clearly as he saw it in the blonde's flinch. He hastened to leave before he could fuck up the evening more than he already had. "Now, not another word."

Madame Tracey had been following their fight but had kept respectfully by the door. She bowed as Crowley swept past her, eyes glued to the ground. He gritted his teeth. The housekeeper's manners meant she did not approve. Before he closed the door behind him, he heard the blonde mutter.  "I suppose the honeymoon is over, then."

The evening was not how he wanted things to go but he shook off his disappointment, he had a meeting to rush to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive him, he's hangry.
> 
> And forgive me for updating so late. We had four typhoons in the last three weeks and we lost part of our roof, a few windows and almost all of our things got wet. Thankfully we weren't near rivers that could flood us out. Most of this chapter has been written on my phone because we've no electricity even now but I needed to write or else I'll go mad.
> 
> Give me a heads up if you see inconsistencies or errors! 😄


	11. Watch Thou and Wake, When Others Be Asleep, To Pry Into the Secrets of the State

The Dark Council’s headquarters was opulent with thick green carpets, polished stone walls, tapestries of glistening threads and chandeliers along the hallway’s ceiling every few feet. But no matter the light or the décor, the very space was enveloped in an air of brooding suspense - an unseen miasma settling into its guests’ bones and dreading what they would find at the meeting hall.

Crowley traversed its corridors, thoughts spinning wildly - thrown this way and that by his panic. The magnitude of the attack concerned him and it had been done within a matter of hours. Aziraphale's shocked face came to mind. Was he right to think it was the Van Helsings? The blonde certainly seemed innocent, and surely Gabriel wouldn't have kept himself from all the action. Then again, everything had gone off with efficiency, it had probably been planned weeks before. He let out a breath. The whole affair coinciding with their wedding was just that - a coincidence.

But what of the actual marriage? Will they hail him a traitor for fraternizing with a vampire hunter - from the very family his kind despised? If it were the Van Helsings who staged the coup, would he be strung along with their fates? Or would he survive this night to see another sunset and hopefully choke out an apology to Aziraphale before their time was up? It was a challenge to make his feet walk forward when all he wanted to do was run the other direction.

He managed to steel himself into entering the meeting hall - a large cave-like room, lit only by candelabras strewn across the space, a more appropriate setting for creatures of the night. A long table that seated around twenty stretched in the middle, more than a dozen spots already occupied. He made his way to his designated chair, nausea slowly gripping him. The guards didn't immediately cuff him, he saw no signs of rising animosity towards him and it looked more like everyone was as skittish as he was.

"We are missing quite a number of members," a voice muttered from the furthest end of the room. A few knees hit the table, others cursed under their breaths and some, like Crowley who knew the voice well, simply turned in their chairs. It was Hell's Prince Beelzebub, appearing silently from the shadows alongside Heaven's Voice of God, Metatron. They were the only two who did not sport the members' full-bodied, hooded cloaks. It was a rare occasion that all supernatural dignitaries of the country were called in. There were always dangers that came with mixing species.

The blood feuds were relentless between humans, vampires, witches and shapeshifters alike and caused more than a few headaches to negotiate. Of course everyone knew who was who, anyway. The flimsy guise of facelessness was there to keep from showing their emotions so blatantly, adding enough time to school their faces at the start of each gathering. It also helped that both agents of Heaven and Hell were presently lounging companionably next to each other. A clear ' _if we can do it, so could you_ _'_ gesture that kept them all playing nice.

"It is such short notice," Metatron pleaded but in a droning, uninterested voice. "We have enough to neutralize the horde, do we not?" 

There were but a handful, but Crowley knew they were the most likely to have the resources needed for whatever operations the Council thought up. He settled into his seat, accepting that he had nothing to fear from the room just then.

As they took stock of each other, the door opened once more, admitting a vampire underling, clutching a thick envelope in his hand. He looked lost and wide-eyed at the scene, clearly looking for someone but not finding them there. He had on a cloak but no hood, signifying that he was but one of the other member’s representatives. Although, despite the covering, Crowley could see his knees ready to buckle underneath him. The newcomer took in a fortifying breath then walked to the head of the table, offering the envelope to the pair to be perused with other similar looking papers already at the table. The young vampire then sat where the human’s emissary ought to have seated and took out pen and paper.

Metatron hummed and signaled for the assembly to pay attention, taking the stack of papers and going over them quickly. "Rumors of Dracul's presence have spread but tracks signified but a small group of European vampires, likely his supporters, who were told to 'open a path for him,'" they said, straight to the crux of the matter.

An outraged cry erupted from the table. Dracul was the oldest vampire in Europe and the older a vampire is, the stronger they were. He could ensnare a victim and make them do his bidding with just a glance. He could even call them from their own closed rooms with a simple nip to their wrist - the marked humans beckoned mindlessly to their doom. Crowley hissed, Dracul and his wives did not mind devastating innocent lives. The country would be turned into his feeding ground. If he gets a foothold within the city, no one would be safe.

"We cannot have another territorial war," Beelzebub growled. "The paperwork for human souls are exasperating enough."

"Precisely," Metatron agreed. "Our offices are trying to keep abreast of the Great Plan as it is, we need not add your casualties to the mix."

"They've apparently been haphazardly creating new vampires to help prepare Dracul's entrance," Beelzebub continued, scanning the papers as well.

"We've imprisoned a few of them, weeks earlier," a voice sounded two seats away from Crowley's. It was the Master Vampire of London, Lord Burton. They weren't close but they were cordial to each other, keeping within their own circles. There was mutual understanding that their own borders were hard enough to manage and he pitied the man for having more on his plate with the city's populace. "It appears they are brainwashed. Babbling about the coming of the ‘new era’ in British history. We can't extract any other information from them but witches and healers are looking into their condition."

"We caught another group just this evening, attacking one of the surveillance outposts," another voice added. It was low and gravelly. The heat emanating from the figure announced him as the delegate shapeshifter, Lord Derbish. Crowley needed but a quick glance to where they were seated to confirm. "Most likely it was the same for the others. It seems far too accurately orchestrated for foreigners."

"Which means one or more of your numbers are involved," the Prince of Hell tutted. "You must-"

A figure closest to the Heads raised her hands and everyone froze. It was the Coven Leader. She was as eccentric as the witches she watched over: the woman rarely spoke, never took her hood down and answered in riddles when asked directly. But her insight was greatly sought after. She placed a finger to her partially-hidden lips and they all listened.

Crowley held his breath for what felt like an eternity when he heard the thumps. They were light but in a rush, a child running, judging by the sounds. And then there came the knocking at the door. When it opened, in rushed a boy, barely eleven, who paid no mind to the cloaked forms before him and shot straight towards the representatives of Heaven and Hell. He held out an even thicker envelope then ran back out.

Beelzebub opened the pack and chuckled. "The Human Emissary made the job easier for you." The Emissary's proxy looked up. The delegate had been at their post less than a year but no one had met them properly yet. They worked from a distance, dropping the council well informed research on the denizens of the city. The current stack of papers were no different. With a snap of their fingers, Metatron had replicated the documents and the same thick envelopes sat forebodingly in front of each of the other members.

"Inside are the main suspects, their usual haunts, who they talked to recently and their past relationship with Dracul himself or his supporters," they answered their questioning stares.

"We'll leave you to plan the rest," Beelzebub added as they rose from their seat, Metatron following suit. In a blink, the agents were gone.

Most of the members lowered their hoods as the planning session became less formal. They flicked their papers open. There weren't personally discriminating information from the suspects besides what they already knew from past encounters but seeing the details from scores of sources enumerated in neat script was staggering.

"It's a little scary how they know all these," another member chuckled nervously, pointing at the envelope's contents.

"Their network is vast and their records immense," the emissary's representative stated from his seat, eyes diligently scanning the pages. "They've got the surveillance team wound tight around their little finger, despite them not meeting directly," the young vampire sounded pained. "They must be shocked at the turn of events. I've been told they were away and I couldn't reach them tonight. But they found out, one way or the other. These reports were reproduced hastily and, by the Emissary's standards, are wholly incomplete."

"Do they have incriminating evidence of us?" a nervous shuffling of papers followed the question.

"As far as I know, no. Unless you've done something suspicious in the last year or so," the representative looked up, sensing the tension. "But worry not," he winked to diffuse the worried looks. "They haven't bothered learning your identities. They were quite adamant on the whole anonymity concept."

"Quit jesting Zachariah," another member replied, but in a good-natured fashion.

"It's true!" Zachariah insisted. "But they can and they will if Beelzebub and Metatron ask. But they value their privacy thus wishing to respect yours."

"Their influence far surpasses mine," Burton mused aloud. "This might be the first you've seen their work," he addressed the others. "But their help had been truly essential these past few years before I suggested they fill in the position. It took me a while to trust them, but Van Helsing kills have lessened considerably in the capital. And for those who needed to disappear, so long as they were innocent to start with, successfully eluded both bounty hunters and assassins alike with their help. Then the Emissary would find ways to prove their innocence and I am forced to write letters asking for forgiveness," he laughed disbelievingly. "A veritable human who is, thankfully, on our side."

"An amazing repertoire, that," Crowley conceded. He'd had very little to do with the Council, and was too lazy to keep up with its mortal members. "This means these suspects are top priority," he waved his papers about.

"Let's divide those easiest to investigate through our own means," Derbish suggested, receiving terse nods. There were names listed who were highly influential, seeking an audience with them would be a challenge. "I'll have my quarter help rebuild the outposts."

"I'll call for reinforcements in mine," Crowley volunteered.

"You can have them help the surveillance operations," Burton directed. "We'd need more lookouts for Dracul's forces. Just send my lot a line when intervention is required."

"I'll be at your service, then, my lord," Zachariah turned to the red-head.

The remaining hours had them focused on enlisting more man power, unsure of the numbers they were expected to contain. By the end of the meeting, they felt like they were heading off for war.

It was well past three in the morning when the gathering was dismissed. When they exited the doors to the better-lit halls, Burton took him aside.

"Should I congratulate you or...?" he was asked with a raised brow. Crowley cursed, hopes of escaping the dreaded talk dwindling away.

"I left her alone on our wedding night, might have a stake or two waiting for me when I return," he grimaced at his own joke. The other vampire cringed in sympathy.

"I can't say I envy you. In fact," his tone lowered. "I suggest you keep a wary eye." Burton's own dark gaze shifted to the windows and the dark alleys beyond. "I won't need to tell you the explicit details and I understand something drastic brought about your union, otherwise…" he shrugged then sighed. "Despite knowing she's the cleanest of the clan in terms of blood spilled, her name bodes enough of a threat."

"Tell me about it," he mumbled, scrubbing his face in the slim chance it could rid him of the wrinkles the evening had surely added to his still unchanging visage. "At least I can say I'm the first of our lot to do the impossible. Can I get a wahoo?" 

Burton laughed. "You've achieved many firsts, my friend. And I pray you've many more opportunities to do so."

When finally he reentered his stately home, Crowley was too exhausted to notice the crates by the door. Instead of the bottle of scotch he was hoping to unearth from his parlour, he got a painful jab in the shin from one box's corners. The force jostled its contents and out popped a Van Helsing stamped stake.

He screamed, scrambling away from the offending object and plastered his back to the nearest wall. The ruckus alerted the household. He was not welcomed by any of the staff, nor did he see Madame Tracy. Instead he found four children, shooting scared and guilty glances at him and then to the crates by the door. Behind them was his equality guilty-looking wife whose mouth could only utter, "Oh, _fuck_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The electricity came back after almost a month, haha. And ooh, I missed the sound and the feel of the keyboard as I type. 
> 
> Aziraphale POV in the next chapter! :D
> 
> And thank you all for the kudos and the comments and the love! You guys are amazing! <3


	12. A Smoke Rais'd with the Fume of Sighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fighting is very tiring and so I gave them a bit of a steamy moment (not the smut) together to get things out their system.

The evening had shaped itself into one of the most unpleasant moments she’s had ever to endure. Their fight had her cursing her life silently as she paced the entrance hall. Surely Crowley had not seriously placed her on house arrest. There was a crisis and she needed to help! Crowley had taken the carriage with him but she needed to be inconspicuous for her errand. A coach bearing a duke’s livery will not do. Nor will she sit in the damp fog of London waiting for a hackney to approach. On foot it will be. She quickly replayed their route to the townhouse, flicking through which streets would lead her fastest to where she needed to be.

"There, there, lovey," Madame Tracy called to her. "The Master hasn't fed in weeks. His temper's a little short lately."

She stopped her strides, watching the woman shuffle closer, hands folded gently in front of her. Was she strong enough to restrain her? Was she the only security in the immediate vicinity? Was she more friend or foe in that instant?

"We've a footman ready to run for bottles from the nearest hospital," Madame Tracy told her in her most appeasing voice. "I'll have him drink the second he enters the door and Lord Grumpy'll be no more."

Despite her growing worries the blonde chuckled weakly at the housekeeper's words. "We may not have been together for long but I'm certain he'll not take kindly to being called Lord Grumpy," she wrinkled her nose.

"I'll take the blame for that, don't you worry," Madame Tracy winked and Aziraphale softened. Whoever the woman was, she seemed to be more than just a housekeeper to Crowley and looked like she knew how to bend his rules. "Now, how about we sup? I've worked so hard on that dinner, you should know."

The blonde worried her lip. She would need the help...

"Madame Tracy…" she started cautiously. "May I be frank with you?"

The housekeeper grinned at her. "You won't be sidetracked, I see. Well, let's hear it, then."

"What are your thoughts on me going out tonight?"

"I'd caution you against it," the older woman replied gravely, but she had plucked her coat from the stand and was flapping it in front of her before she got the hint.

"You're risking your marriage before it's even started, lovey," Madame Tracy said while fastening her pin. She then led her to the hall table, taking out ink, paper, a pounce pot and, surprisingly, a dagger small enough to hide in her coat pocket.

"You heard him," the blonde confided, smiling at the other woman’s antics before scratching out a quick note. "This marriage is a sham and despite my hopes, it appears I'm no more free here than when I was back with my brother."

"I doubt that, but I must warn you - he can make your life rather difficult, dearie," Madame Tracy shook her head sadly.

"If he tries then I would love nothing more than to return the sentiment," she muttered to the woman's retreating back as she went to call a footman. Aziraphale gave the lad the note's intended address, telling him to dash then donned her cap.

"You won't reconsider?" The housekeeper asked as she opened the door for her.

"We're complete opposites, Anthony and I," she kissed Madame Tracy on the cheek as she passed. "But in stubbornness we may be perfectly-matched."

  
  


It took but a matter of hours to finish her work, and Aziraphale was retracing her steps back to her new residence. She had worn a hole through her slippers, vexed as she haven’t her walking boots to better protect her feet. Thankfully, her way had been smooth.

She lifted her head to gauge her whereabouts. It was the dead of night, but the moon was bright enough for them to leave off using a lamp. She nodded as she took in the familiar silhouettes of the surrounding houses, turning back to beckon two boys closer. One had fair hair and a small stature, balancing large spectacles on his nose. The other with too short trousers for his long-legged frame, sporting a very dusty coat and cap. Both looked exhausted but whispering excitedly as they followed the vampire hunter.

"It's mighty late, children. Swiftly now, you look ready to keel over, but we’re nearly there,” she urged them gently. They soon found themselves easing into Crowley’s townhouse. She hustled them into the kitchen, glad to find a fire to warm her charges. A minute of exploration later, she found milk to heat and hailed her discovery of a bottle of orgeat and cinnamon sticks. Soon she was ladling the sweet drink for the boys, laughing at their enthusiasm.

There came a commotion from the entrance hall just as she had handed the boys their cups. Rushing out, they met Madame Tracy at the door, hastily pulling a robe over her nightgown. As they wrenched the wood open, they came face to face with a red-faced Shadwell and two grinning children.

“Wensley! Brian! You’re here!” one child cried. He had a cherubic countenance, fair curls and blue eyes, but with a mischievous grin painted almost permanently on his face. “Could’ve told us sooner.”

“We’ve just come,” the taller boy, Brian, announced. “And the miss gave us milk!”

“Do we get some?” a girl piped up, holding Shadwell’s sleeve to keep him at the doorstep.

“Of course, Pepper,” Aziraphale answered, giving Madame Tracy an apologetic look. “Why don’t you and Adam follow the other two to the kitchen. Wensley, dear boy, would you portion our newest guests their drink. You saw where the mugs were.” The bespectacled boy nodded dutifully and took his friends away.

“This is most interesting,” the housekeeper hummed. “Shall we take this to my sitting room? It’s near enough the kitchens and the little darlings, with the added bonus of a bottle of port.” Aziraphale nodded, taking the still mute Shadwell by the arm. The man was always a little skittish around women. She bullied him into a seat and fidgeted as she sat on her own.

“Shall we start with this fine gentleman’s name?” Madame Tracey smiled, clearly taking the situation in stride, pouring them each a glass of alcohol.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale startled, taking the offered drink then placing it down a side table before waving her hand to indicate the witch finder. “Madame Tracy, may I introduce my uncle, Sergeant Shadwell. Uncle, this is the housekeeper, Madame Tracey.”

“Harlot,” the man muttered under his breath but the women still heard. Aziraphale could only blush.

“My, such a way with words, Sergeant,” the housekeeper batted her eyelashes, not put out at all. “And the nippers in the other room?”

“The smallest is Wensleydale, the son of the friends I rushed to this evening. The child abductions had gotten worse, apparently, and the parents had gotten quite worried. I volunteered to take him someplace safer - here - I mean. If I may?”

“That’d be your husband’s decision to make, dearie,” the older woman reminded her gently, but the blonde still flinched.

“Right, I-I’ll - When he arrives, then I’ll --” she stuttered but couldn’t finish, wringing her fingers at the prospect of another fight.

“Bit of advice, men are more likely to say ‘yes’ after a tumble in the sheets,” Madame Tracy winked.

“Dinnae be giein' th' lassie ideas, ye jezebel,” Shadwell sat up, Aziraphale shushed him with another glass of port.

“Unlikely I’d be able to employ such means, Madame, but I will do my best to talk to him,” she rushed to say then continued their previous conversation. “The tallest is Brian. His parents are in the workhouses and leaves him alone to do his own work. Barely comes home to them nowadays. He’s a link-boy and had struck a friendship with Wensley. I could not separate the one from the other, you see. He’s a darling, I promise. Just a little too intimate with grime. Can’t scrub it off him. We tried but he’d have another patch by the hour but he knows not to leave prints.

“The newest additions, also their friends through association with me, are Adam and Pepper. The latter, one of our maids, no father and the mother too busy raising her other daughter. Adam is the son of my father’s valet and our cook. He’s also my pet’s handler. Which I assume to be the reason for this visit?” she directed the question at Shadwell.

“Aye. Yer brother threathened tae cut th' beast up 'n' th' laddie bolted tae save it. Tellt us tae bring it 'ere wi' yer supplies,” he hummed, bringing his glass up for another round and didn’t even complain when it was Madame Tracey who poured it for him.

“A pet?” the older woman prodded.

Aziraphale sighed, falling forward to hide her face in her hands. “Yes, my pet snake, Francis. My maid’s terribly afraid of him and must have left him at the manor when she left for Glasgow. He’s not poisonous and sweet-tempered, despite his looks,” she hastened to assure the housekeeper’s raised brows.

“And these supplies?” she asked, making Aziraphale grimace.

“Honestly, I thought Gabriel would wait a day or two at least,” she groaned from her seat. “He doesn’t know about Anthony’s, er… condition.” She gave Shadwell a side-ways look, before turning back to Madame Tracy. “They’re the standard... Van Helsing, er… paraphernalia.” She finished, twisting her wedding ring in agitation, unsure how the housekeeper would react.

“He wis storming thro' th' halls,” the sergeant complained, oblivious to Aziraphale’s disjointed narrative. “Wanting tae throw yer hings oot. Maist wur gaen, mynd. Coudnae haud 'til mornin'.” The sergeant took the bottle of alcohol in what he thought was a sly manner and grinned at how he got away with his little stunt.

“Your brother sounds like a wonderful man,” Madame Tracy stated archly. “I suppose we best unload the things, the morning’s fast approaching.” They stood, leaving the tipsy Shadwell in his chair, lest he hurt himself and called the children to help. According to Madame Tracy, only two other servants stayed in the townhouse beside herself and they had earlier that evening drunk themselves to a stupor despite her petitions.

The women placed Francis in an unused bedroom for the time being, while the others took the crates inside. The housekeeper then showed Aziraphale her bedchamber before scouting out a room to hide the hunting supplies. She had just reached the top of the stairs on her way back to check on the proceedings from the ground floor when she heard the screams.

Lifting her skirts, she rushed down. By the door were the crates, waiting to be smuggled into their intended storage space. One had cracked open, the perfectly polished stakes gleaming in the low light. The screaming, she was dismayed to find, came from Anthony.

She gingerly stepped in front of the children and Anthony’s wide golden gaze arrested her, dark lenses flung off at some point. The blacks were but slits, the snake ready to strike. She took a defensive stand, fearing for the worst to come. But instead, Anthony got up, fixed his tailcoat and waved the children away.

“You lot should be in bed by now…” he croaked at them.

“But we still need -- “ Adam started to protest.

“Dear, we’ll worry about it tomorrow,” Aziraphale brushed the child’s head to silence him. “Is there still milk in the pot? You can finish it off if you wish, then to bed.”

“Yes, miss,” they chorused and exited to the servant’s quarters.

The blonde watched them, feeling the prickling stare of her husband behind her. “You wouldn't believe the trouble those four get to when they’re together,” she said, forcing her tone to stay casual and failing miserably.

“Angel, as much as I love your anecdotes, you know that’s not how you start this conversation.” Aziraphale noted the pet name and his enervated tone and let out a breath. The poor dear had the fight burned out of him.

“Oh, yes,” she finally turned, smoothing down her skirts. “Well.. uhm… would you -- would you mind if they - the children, I mean - stay here? And my pet, Francis? They won’t be a bother, I guarantee.” She had planned on easing him into the conversation but perhaps Anthony would appreciate her being direct instead.

"Why the bloody hell should I do that?" he grumbled, turning towards the parlour. "Were you that keen on having children you had to find four at once?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath and followed, giving a summary of the same instances she shared with Madame Tracy. Anthony tutted and glowered at it all. Vampires are irritable when hungry, she reasoned, the same way as humans. She watched his slumped figure and noticed how gaunt he looked in the candlelight.

"Anthony," she whispered, hand on her heart. "When was the last you've fed?"

"Does it matter?" he snapped. "I haven't had the time to. Been very busy, if you must know."

She took a step closer. "You can have me," she suggested, eyes widening at her own gumption.

"What?" Anthony squawked, the glass of scotch he poured for himself, forgotten in his hand.

"Fresh blood will help remove your fatigue," she said sensibly, warming up to the idea. It wasn't the first time she offered herself for a feed and she heard bloodletting had quite a number of medicinal advantages. “You can restrain my arms if you need to, although I promise I have no weapons on me contrary to the evidence by the door.”

Anthony only gawked at her, as still as the… well, dead. She fidgeted with her ring, a nervous habit becoming more and more familiar, afraid she had said far too much to her husband.

"Aren't you afraid I'd suck you dry?" he asked, finally finding his voice, brows knitting together.

"I trust you," she stated. To her it was but the absolute truth, damning it may be to her kin, hoping her sincerity came through and encouraged the Duke to reciprocate.

"I can't believe you've lived until now with that state of mind," Anthony snorted lightly, then turned sombre. "I am a vampire, I've seen terrors the likes of which you could only imagine… I facilitated some of them. You should not take this lightly." His eyes were earnest, begging her to reconsider.

She smiled at him instead. "This is partly for my protection," she exclaimed dramatically. She preferred their exchange to be light. The leaden manner would only make it more awkward than it should. "Madame Tracy shall have my head if she finds I've not been taking care of my husband properly."

This startled a laugh from the master vampire. "Should that happen, I'd best warn you her favorite weapon is the stout rolling pin she hides in the kitchen drawers."

They grinned at each other, forgetting their previous quarrels in favor of that brief moment of camaraderie they had shared in that seemingly long ago time at the Device’s library. Aziraphale dared take a step closer, arms opened towards the red-head in invitation.

“How do you want me?” she beckoned, rather unable to comprehend the red-head’s confounded expression. “I wish to help, please?” she added kindly.

She predicted he’d push her away once more and prepared for the rejection. She did not, however, anticipate the flash of _want_ from those golden eyes, pinning her to the spot. It disappeared swiftly, but it was enough for her worries to dissipate. It was easy, then, to let her husband guide her to a chaise and lay her down on its embroidered pillows. It felt eerily dream-like, her motions, shocked at the sudden turn of events. He asked her, in strained tones if she was certain of her choice. Despite the hunger, he made to ascertain her comfort and she nodded readily, waving away his fretting over her.

When at last she had him convinced, the vampire sat gingerly on the edge of the chaise and bent over her. She watched his eyes roam her face and down to her throat. There came a gleam of white. Aziraphale stared in awe as Anthony exposed his fangs, tongue running over them smoothly in a slow crawl. She felt her pulse quicken, but not in fear. Anthony gathered her wrists in one hand and held them above her head. She felt fire trickle down her spine straight to her lower regions. Without access to her hands, she had nothing to muffle the moan that wrenched its way out her throat.

Anthony stilled, eyes snapping to take in her surely flushed face. His lips curled into a feral grin. Face inching ever closer to hers.

“My, my, angel. You seem… eager,” he whispered against her cheek, voice low in a purr that sent her skin tingling in anticipation. She couldn’t answer, breath coming in short gasps. She felt the red-head’s nose tip nudge her jaw. She tipped her head instinctively, exposing more of her neck. She heard Anthony inhale sharply and felt his growl before it reached her ears and her lids shuttered close, reveling in the sensation.

The next brush was featherlight, but it had her shuddering all the same, Anthony nosing down the column of her throat starting just behind her ear to her pulse point. She swallowed down a whimper as the vampire’s lips neared her skin. She had kissed him hours before and she believed that no other experience could have surpassed that stimulating circumstance. She was being proven very wrong. She felt their initial press, and melted instantly.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it all meant nothing. They may have been married but they could never be _lovers_. Anthony was simply at his wit’s end and she was the closest willing human. Surely the man had others to fraternize with and didn’t truly need her except for that one morning. She might as well take what little imagined affection she could take. She felt his lips slide open, breath heating the flesh underneath. There came the slide of those sinister fangs, grazing her jugular maddeningly.

Then the bite.

She cried out, but instead of jumping away, she arched up, bringing their chests flush together. The vampire groaned as she did, and the arm that had been slung over the back of the chaise to hold him up had slipped off to coil around her middle. The hand around her wrists clenched harder, the other gripping her hip desperately.

All thoughts fled her mind as the points of contact filled her senses. There was Anthony’s sucking mouth; his thundering heart felt; and his strong arms clinging to bring her closer. Then lower to where a leg had been thrown over hers. How so, she couldn’t have known, nor cared for at the moment. Her skirts were too thin to hide the rippling muscles of his thigh as it rested in between her rapidly heating crotch, nor the length of something poking her stomach…

Panic spiked through her. Had Anthony taken ahold of a stake from the crate and hid it in his trousers? Was it part of a ploy to frame her as they lay there or would he make use of the tool to stab her?

All of a sudden, she felt Anthony’s weight lifting off, her limbs and waist freed from their hold. The change had her reeling, fear drowned in disappointment over the rapidly growing space between them. She tried sitting up, an unconscious attempt to bid him return to her side, but she fell back into the cushions. She was dizzy from blood loss but she would recover, glad was she to already be on the chaise. She lifted a hand to her neck when Anthony grunted at her to stop.

"There are only two pinpricks,” Anthony told her, voice hoarse. The vampire had his back to her, adjusting his clothing and walking unsteadily towards the door. "I've closed them off and they're healing as is, better not touch them yet."

He stopped at the threshold and turned to look at her briefly. “The children can stay, and your pet. But they’ll be your responsibility,” he said and walked out the room.

In those few seconds, Aziraphale saw. It hadn’t been a stake she had felt between them. It was, in fact... the blonde fanned herself, grabbing a pillow to hide her flaming face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the chapter while helping my niece with her homework. We've been having late nights so please excuse errors and inconsistencies. Point them out and I'd be much obliged. 😊😊
> 
> I've also been a little distracted these past few days making art for the Ineffable Holiday 2020 prompts. So, the update was late.... Sorry, 🙃. To make up for it, have this [snek drunk on spiked cider](https://zephyrofalltrades.tumblr.com/post/636373246030282752/day-2-hot-cocoacider-do-not-leave-your-snek):  
> 


	13. Let Every Eye Negotiate for Itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light angst. There will be talks in the next chapter.

Three days. Crowley groaned from his post beside the theatre entrance. It had been three days since he’d had a taste of Aziraphale’s blood. Three days of him hiding in the darker recesses of his own house. Three days of Madame Tracy tutting at his cowardice.

He was not a coward. Never been, nor at the moment. He was simply… taking time to recuperate from his nightly exertions. He wasn’t hiding when he dashed off the moment the sun disappeared and returned only as it threatened to show itself once more. Coincidental, that was all. He was a very busy vampire. And it wasn’t as if he was avoiding talking to Aziraphale. He had sent her a note of apology for being absent, and for the hasty house arrest. Even forgiving her rule breaking and impromptu child-minding. He even had two pages of what turned out to be a long encomium on the softness and warmth of her skin, the flavor of her blood, and the melody of her sighs. These exaltations had of course been burned the moment he realized what he had written down. His dreams were as troublesome as well, mostly courting the very peak of pleasure and jolting him awake before he reached that unattainable summit.

He felt shamefaced at these thoughts more than before. He had been given ultimate trust by the woman he had berated for more than what was acceptable just because of her lineage. He had been offered to drink in the life-giving liquid within her veins. And all he had to thank her for was taking advantage of her prone form. He shook his head from the memory of the other night, he had to keep his wits about him for the evening.

It was no falsehood to say he had been preoccupied. The Duke had to curb the rumors of his siding with the Van Helsings through the union, oppose those who were whispering that he encouraged the match to rise to power. Thankfully, Burton insisted on accompanying him. A little powerplay had been needed and he had to knock a fang or two from distasteful mouths to send a clear message. The Master Vampire of London smoothed over the more hard-headed and had given whole-hearted assent during the altercations to give his subjects a thorough beating when necessary. Most of London’s nocturnal residents were thus greatly wary of him.

What had shocked them both was learning of Aziraphale's fraternizing with a flock of younger vampires in certain areas. The groups were ecstatic to find the blonde settled with someone as formidable as Crowley. To most she was that duckling of a girl who ran off during most of the hunts and was seen using her stakes and mallet to fix crooked tombstones. When asked if they were willing to testify to his wife’s true allegiance, if need be, they chorused in the affirmative.

“We daren't tell the elders before,” a gentle voice whispered to him one evening from one of the more bashful of the ladies. "Such a taboo to even speak of the name Van Helsing. But hers is the opinion we are more than monsters. She visits sometimes. Less when her bothersome brother came back. I feared for her safety all the while. There’s that one stocky cousin of hers that looked like he’d run a stake through her chest if she messed up another of his raids.” She shivered at the thought, and Crowley shared her sentiments. Sandalphon Van Helsing was a brute when let loose. “Perhaps we may visit her sometime?"

The testimonies regarding his angel's character filled him with even more guilt and he swayed into pubs for the remainder of the hours before sunrise to drown himself in cheap ale so as not to get overwhelmed with emotion. It was part of the still human aspect of himself, the one too prone to seek comfort in alcohol. He contemplated visiting one of the brothels in the outskirts of town, hoping to relieve himself of the sexual tension the blonde cursed him with, but dismissed the thought entirely. He had a wife now and blast it all, he actually wanted to be faithful to the vampire hunter.

Which made his next chore taste like tar in his mouth. He waited by the theater doors, scanning the crowd rushing in. He had also made use of those two nights to track down, contact and procure his target’s audience. Lady Carmine was one of the top priority suspects in their files. She was a vampire who had been exiled more than once, but her fortunes and her allies smuggled her in faster than their men could keep her out. But she was by no means indestructible. The last he saw her, she had been trapped in a silver-gilded coffin with three others who had wanted to start Armageddon on their own terms. The magic needed to open the trap should have been immense. And yet Carmine had been spotted going about the town as if she had nothing to atone for. With the current affairs, it wasn’t hard to conjecture who lent such power to free her.

A carriage drew up to the entrance bearing the Zuigiber arms, that of the lady’s _latest_ late husband, and he went to welcome her. Her auburn hair fell loosely over her shoulders in a fiery cascade and she had on a scarlet dress cut in the latest fashion of the season. The silk fluttered in the light breeze, clinging to the lithe figure that had men dying, in the most literal sense, to inspect closer. She invoked wars within and without the country, flirting with men, immortals and Death itself during the process. She was as slippery as Crowley himself when under scrutiny, therefore, what better way to fight fire than with fire?

The Duke held out an arm for her to take and escorted her into the theater, stealing himself to try and seduce information from her. He had a way with words and could easily string the ones required in the right order with guileless disposition, catching the other parties of the conversation off guard. But his train of thought screeched to a halt when they reached the box the lady had procured for them. It had two other guests whose ugly countenances he’d have rather gone without. They were of the lesser vampire nobility, Lords Hastur and Ligur. The first tall and lean but paler than a newly entombed corpse, the later was a hulking mass with colored skin. Complimentary right up to the menacing sneers they wore. He bristled at their approach and Lady Carmine laughed.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” she leaned close to his ear, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Did you think me a fool?”

Crowley composed himself and took a seat, farthest from the pair glaring at him. They had quarreled more than once since the fourteenth century, the men were hell-bent to be rid of him. He wasn’t certain when the animosity turned murderous, but it had all escalated from a heated debate to desperately avoiding a large vial of holy water. Satan preserved him as the liquid sloshed unto Ligur’s chest instead of his. The cur unfortunately lived. The Council hadn’t been amused with the proceedings, so they were caught in a temporary truce to avoid inopportune deaths of innocent bystanders. But they were by no means friendlier whenever they had the unfortune to meet.

“We both know this isn’t the usual social call, Lady Carmine,” he drawled. “Might as well tell me all I need and I can leave the dastardly duo to your mercies."

The temptress sat fluidly beside him, hand landing on his knee and teasing a slow trail higher up his thigh. He fought the impulse to snap her wrist in two, he was greatly outnumbered and there would be an audience to his crime.

“Must it always be business, Crowley?” she leaned in closer and exposed what little else her low neckline failed to hide. “I thought you called to finally accept my propositions, seeing as you’ve decided to marry someone who’d gladly play with silver chains and pointed sticks as much as I. Have you found her lacking in her wifely duties in some way?” she leered.

“Don’t know why you’d want a traitor,” Hastur groused from his end of the box.

“It’d be a funny old world if you started trusting the likes of him,” Ligur grunted in assent.

“Now boys, we’re here to put on a show, remember?” she chastised without looking at them, removing her hand from Crowley’s inseam to reach up and fiddle with his cravat, grinning all the while. “None of your usual gloom and doom.”

“Don’t you mean _watch_ a show…?” the Duke asked in confusion, gripping the seat’s padded armrests to keep from flinging the woman away.

“Oh, I meant what I said.” And she took his chin in her hand, slowly turning it toward the other side of the theatre.

His stomach dropped as there in the box across theirs was his wife, eyes locking on him for a second before she swiveled gracefully to Newt. She was smiling meekly as she coaxed the werewolf’s attention to the stage, pointing out whatever little detail she saw there, or perhaps enthusing on how marvelous the play would be. It was a smooth transition, as if she hadn’t seen him at all. Anathema, on the other hand, who was sat at her husband’s other side, was glaring at him in full force. He surreptitiously scanned the ton below and found heads turning his way then towards the Device’s, a hush falling on the otherwise deafening crowd, eager to see how the drama would play out.

He cursed at his stupidity. He never even thought to ask Aziraphale’s plans during the week. He had acted a fool to think she would keep to townhouse. And there was his punishment - the knowledge of humiliating his wife in front of the whole of London. They’ve been married three days yet he had never even thought to present her to the social circles as his wife. Instead there he was escorting the most sought after vixen in the area, draping over him scandalously as if she was the more desired.

Crowley felt Lady Carmine’s sharp fingernails tap their way from one shoulder, across his nape, and resting on the other. Her other hand freed his chin to circle round his neck and grip her own arm, locking him in place. “Now, I know you understand how this must play out,” Lady Carmine hummed in his ear, nosing her way to his throat.

His every nerve writhed in disgust and he let his face show the same. He had been far too preoccupied with how to trick the vampire into revealing anything that would lead them to Dracul that he agreed readily to accompany her that evening, social graces thrown to the winds. But was any information from a scheming bitch worth the show of rebuffing Aziraphale's company? Worth offending the woman he was growing greatly attached to?

"Your wife’s tougher than I thought," she continued, dark eyes assessing the blonde. “She must of course have some redeeming quality. Her looks are certainly beneath your touch. I’d have thought you’d at least take a diamond of the first water.”

“Never been fond of diamonds, myself,” he replied, coming to a decision and finally making use of his hands to pry the woman from his neck. “Far too gaudy. Brilliant to look at, yes, but… soulless.” He righted himself and stood, meeting the lady's indignant scowl with a smirk. “At least I have the utmost certainty that my **wife** ,” he punctuated the word enough to carry his voice to the boxes lower down. “Knows to surround herself with the more superior of our kind.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Ligur parried. “I’d say you’ve actually fallen for the trollop.”

He let out a hiss, face contorting in full demonic display of scales and fangs. It happened in a flash, no one else but the three others with him could have seen, but it was enough. Hastur had fainted into Ligur’s quivering hold, Lady Carmine almost falling off her seat. Without waiting a moment more, he made a quick bow and exited just as the curtain rose to the entrance of the players.

“You said no to diamonds, but would Aziraphale take sapphires?” Burton mused sipping at his glass of bourbon. Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug. He had somehow ended up in his counterpart’s study, drinking none of the alcohol offered and his palms resolutely smothering his face. He hadn’t intended to leave the theatre altogether but as he neared the Devices’ box, Anathema gave him her most formidable death stare and he ran off. His feet dragged him to Burton’s mansion without his knowing, laying his woes on the amused, yet sympathetic master vampire.

“Have mercy on yourself,” Burton reached over to clasp his shoulder, his voice holding in his mirth.

“You may laugh,” red-head said as he scrubbed his face. Burton did, unable to help himself.

“For all the centuries we’ve been acquainted, Crowley, this is the first you’ve sought sanctuary in my home. And all for a woman.”

“Believe me I’m as shocked as you!” he cried, grabbing tufts of his hair in his long-fingered hands. “The whole episode was crap. I’m crap. She’d have been ridiculed before the play even started. They’d believe, or worse, she’ll believe, she’s unwanted which is far from the truth. I’m a downright piss-poor example of a husband there is. I don’t think I can go home after this.”

“But you know you must,” the other reminded him, shaking his head at the red-head’s expletives.

“Must I?” Crowley groaned.

“Carmine knew where your wife was going to be,” Burton frowned into his glass. “Don’t you think it's suspicious?”

“Hardly a mystery, that. She’s got Hastur and Ligur as her cronies. They don’t need any prompting to spy on my affairs. Is why I keep only Madame Tracey. Likely they have spies on the council member’s homes.” The other man nodded knowingly, they were doing the same after all. “I’ve been too scatter-brained to warn the household and the knowledge of the play must have reached their ears somehow. I should have wondered why Carmine chose somewhere so public. Damn perfect way to make a fool of me.”

“You’ve been working too hard, my friend. We’ve immobilized their forces for the time-being; your men are at their posts; and since Carmine made an appearance, we may be certain there will be weaponry involved in the next raid - which would unlikely come earlier than a week, perhaps two. We have enough to report. Take time to sooth your domestic troubles. Your anxiety shall cloud your judgement otherwise.”

“Much like tonight,” Crowley grunted.

“Precisely!” Burton snapped his fingers in the Duke’s direction. “Now, help me help you. Let’s return to the matter at hand - what dainty things shall best appease your missus?”

  
  


Crowley hobbled into his rooms later that evening with parcels Burton insisted he take and laid them carefully on a table. He divested himself of his evening wear and changed into something more comfortable. He padded his way to the lower floors in search of ice to nurse his aching head. As he neared the sitting room, he paused. There was a merry fire at the hearth and a figure curled up on the sofa nearest the flames.

“She cried herself to sleep, poor dear,” Madame Tracy suddenly accused from behind him.

“Er…” he looked sheepishly at the housekeeper.

“I do hope you’ve a proper apology under way,” she sniffed.

“It wasn’t -”

“Save your excuses, my lord. It’s her that you should convince, not I.”

“R-right…” he scratched the back of his neck. He looked back at the blonde and frowned, “She’s still in her dress. Had she been waiting up for me?”

“After your grave insult?” the housekeeper scoffed quietly. “If I didn’t need to calm Miss Device, I’d have been fuming myself. She on the other hand was stoic until the Devices had gone. But then the children came to ask her for a story. I shooed them off to sleep at some point and came back to her sniffling. I decided to let her be for a while, and now I can’t bear to wake her.”

Crowley shrank from the matronly chiding. He had broken numerous hearts, mortal and immortal alike, but he never worried of the hurt he had inflicted. With Aziraphale, he carried the weight of her distress.

“I was planning on having a formal dinner with her this coming evening,” he confessed. “She’s very appreciative of chocolate,” he added and the older woman softened.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied before turning away.

Crowley stood in the dark hall listening to her retreating steps before stealing his way to the blonde’s side. Gently, he lifted her from the sofa. She stirred only when he was pulling the covers of her bed over her dozing form. He smoothed a hand over her furrowed brows and she nuzzled sleepily into his hand. The sight made his chest constrict in an overwhelming sense of… something far more potent than _fondness_. The realization weakened him and he slid to his knees by the bed.

“Unforgivable, that’s what I am,” he whispered into the night, pained. “But only say the word and I shall be healed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Permission to scream granted. 😁


	14. I Myself, Find in Myself No Pity to Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More misunderstandings. I mean, it's not going any better between the two. But interesting facts come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternating POVs because their thoughts (and mine) are a mess.

The Duke blinked. And blinked again, feeling his jaw drop. He was leaning on the door frame leading to his walled garden, watering can in hand. Normally he’d be greeted by the sight of his plants but what he found instead was a spectacle deeply disturbing but also unbelievably arousing.

His wife had a giant snake curled around her person. It was as thick as an adult’s thigh with scales the color of dark pine, glinting in the weak moonlight. He would have rushed to pry it off of her, but Aziraphale was laughing, fully and unrestrained, while petting it tenderly. And from the movement of her arms, it looked as if she was coaxing it to squeeze her further.

The reptile’s massive body wound around her waist, twice, cradling her breasts which were slowly spilling out her dress as the snake’s movement pulled the fabric further down her chest. It was quite a sight and he knew he was staring. With monumental effort, he looked away from the scene. It had taken him hours evicting lusty thoughts of his temptingly soft and desirable wife. His fantasies of their dinner going well, his apologies accepted and a night of sweet whispers and contented sighs, were running amok in his head.

He hissed at his tightening trousers, pelting into his rooms to adjust himself. It wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression during their first proper meal as husband and wife. “She’s bringing me to bedlam,” he grumbled as he paced, burning his restless energy until it was time to get ready.

He had no valet to help him, too paranoid to let anyone come to close. "And yet I’m living with a Van Helsing," he sighed to himself. He didn’t regret his decision. In fact, the more he reminded himself of it, the more his indignance lessened. Worse, even with all the drama, he was beginning to believe that it was the best decision he made in his undead lifetime.

* * *

Aziraphale slumped unto the grassy floor, aware that she was breaking her perfect posture. But it was a challenge to keep her spine straight when cradling a thirteen-foot long snake. She was in the garden with Francis, who was extremely affectionate that evening. It was a treat to have her pet let loose more often. She received many a horrified glances whenever she’s done it, from family members and staff alike, but she took no heed of them. They even questioned her naming choice. ‘Francis is not a name for a beast’ she’s been told, but she was resolute. Her name was eccentric enough for the both of them.

She pulled at her skirts to make herself more comfortable, soaking in the sounds of creatures settling down for the evening. It was a rare moment of solitude. The children were finishing their chores and she was left to her thoughts. She wrinkled her nose. They weren’t very charitable, thus tried to let them go. 

“He was pressured into this union,” she whispered to the snake. “I can’t force him to cut ties with whomever he’s been seeing before me. Although, I do wish he was a little more subtle with the whole affair.”

She knew Anth- Lord Crowley, she reminded herself, left before the play had even started for her sake.  _ But wasn’t home when she returned _ . Although, she couldn’t blame him for hiding from Anathema and Madame Tracy.  _ Or perhaps, he spent the evening sharing his paramour’s bed _ . The idea stung but was not improbable. She thought she was done aching for the privileges of having a lover, but she never believed she would be jilted that harshly. She turned back to the memory of the previous evening and recalled how great the difference in appearance she and the lady had. And the unsettling feeling that the woman looked far more suited to hang off Crowley’s arm than she.

“I am rather frumpy, am I not, Francis?” The great reptile lifted its head to stare at her and flicked its tongue to tap the tip of her nose. Aziraphale giggled. “I’m afraid you are rather biased, dear boy. Gabriel is not here but I suppose he was right. Compared to the lady in red the night before, I’m no beauty.” The snake tilted its head to nuzzle her jaw, hissing in her ears. “Come now, you must admit my midsection is not at all flattering.” Francis made no sound, instead it squeezed her middle briefly as a fond reminder that it  _ liked her warm and soft tummy, thank you very much _ .

The blonde laughed freely. “You’re being horrid, dear one,” she ran her hands over its scales. “However can I stay peeved when you’re being this adorable.” She kissed the top of its head, warmed by its gestures. She may not have an adoring husband, but she had Francis and the children doting on her. And Madame Tracy, she reminded herself. The housekeeper was mothering her and she couldn’t help but be grateful.

She let the love she felt from the rest of the household ease her wounded pride. It was a simple enough feat, she had enough practice while living with her brother. She soaked in the early evening light before deciding to return to the house. “Let’s bring you back to your room and I shall hasten to mine to freshen up for dinner. The master of the house invited me to dine with him. Surprising is it not? Perhaps to learn of my activities in the coming week. I won’t bother, if I was in his place, I feel as though I may never show my face to the public in the next few years,” she sighed, but she was nothing if not a dutiful spouse.

* * *

They met, both dressed in one of their finest for the occasion. Crowley had on a new cravat, red as the wine he chose for the evening. Aziraphale, on the other hand, wore a deep green gown that shimmered gold when she moved. Her pale throat was on full display and Crowley could just make out the fang marks he’d placed there. He was so mesmerized that he forgot to recite the apologies he prepared for their meeting, mind working just long enough to dumbly offer an arm to lead her into the dining room and pull out her seat.

“You never mentioned you had a snake,” was all he could muster as after they sat down.

“You’ve never been present long enough for me to introduce you to him, my lord,” she replied coolly. He fidgeted in his seat. Aziraphale sounded far too formal. “Francis has been my loyal companion these few years and I cannot stress how precious his presence is. I must thank you once more for letting me keep him,” she dropped her chilly façade for the last statement and Crowley smarted with jealousy for an animal with no legs. Her affection for the thing would explain her lack of fear when it came to his own facial deformity, which meant he could remove his dark lenses more often. But he couldn’t help but scowl at the possibility of him being the lesser of the two of them when it came to the blonde’s attentions.

Instead of delving further into his sudden bout of bitterness, he tried to engage her in other topics. But all landed heavily, earning nothing more than curt replies from the lady. By dessert, he was feeling like a bungling fool. He was at a loss on how to save the evening. Aziraphale was not herself, being too quiet despite the chocolate cake Madame Tracy laid out for them. And with what little conversations they had, she acted far too polite. It wasn’t until she stopped did he realize he missed her snark and her little endearments, even the ‘Anthony’s were nowhere to be found for all of her only addressing him with such since their introduction.

“I thought the wine excellent,” the blonde broke the silence. “It does not deserve your malice, my lord.” She was glancing at the tightened grip he had on his wineglass. He had drunk most of the bottle, hoping to drown out the irritation he felt for himself.

“Would you rather I direct it towards you?” he snapped, instantly regretting his outburst when the lady laid down her fork.

“I shall save you the trouble, then. May I be excused, Lord Crowley?” she asked but was already on her feet. “And to assuage your curiosity, I have other plans for the evening, so as not to impose my presence on you longer than I should.”

“Wait, no, hold on!” Crowley scrambled to his feet.

“I promise I shall only be with close friends, far from the eyes of the public,” she told him over her shoulder. She seemed to be trying for aloof, but there was a crack in her voice that told him otherwise. “You may walk about as you will. You mustn't fear that we'll cross paths again, I’m good at hiding when unwanted.”

Crowley stared at her. She? Unwanted? He wanted to scoff at the thought but Aziraphale was already halfway to the door. Fear coursed through his senses. She was leaving and she was planning to keep her distance. Which was most definitely the opposite of what he wished for. With one quick leap he was beside her, gripping her shoulders to keep her still. Her eyes were blown wide but she didn’t scream, brave as ever. He knew what he had to say, what to tell her so she would stay. But the words stuck in his throat. He opened his mouth once, twice. By the third, Aziraphale tutted and was slowly peeling his hands off her.

Desperate, he pulled her towards him, letting their bodies slot together. She felt marvelous against him. Her little frown beckoned him to kiss it away and he did, all rational thought overridden by his instinct to _show_ how much he needed her to stay close. It was bliss to feel her lips once more. As before, the blonde stiffened but soon reciprocated, arms reaching around his neck. It was leagues better than Carmine’s repulsive advances.

Her hands planted themselves into his hair and he shuddered at the contact, craving for more. He wanted her to pull at the strands as he took her. He wanted her nails to scrape his scalp, scrabbling to keep her senses as she neared release. He wanted them petting him softly, his napping head on her lap as she read her books, fire crackling softly in the background. He groaned at the last image, wondering why he yearned for that last more than the others.

The blonde matched his sounds with a sigh and he swiftly took advantage of her parted lips. She moaned and he dove in deeper. She tasted of chocolate. He could never appreciate it the way Aziraphale did, but if drank from his wife’s lips, he could understand how it was to crave for such a delicacy. It mingled with the wine that coated his own tongue and, together, they partook of the decadent mix.

He let his hands wander now. They were alone in the dining room, far from prying eyes. He dragged them across her back, down her sides to her hips, kneading the soft rolls on the way. They dropped lower to her thighs but he balled his hands into fists at the last minute. He concentrated on the feel of the fabric of her dress to keep him from grabbing anything else. He was drunk on her but he wanted to do it right. Having his way with her laid out on the dining room table like the feast she was… well it was tempting, very, very tempting... but it was also not how to go about their first time together.

He gently pulled away, panting. “Angel,” he breathed. No one could compare to her and it was unheard of, what with her perceptiveness, to think that she could ever be undesirable. “How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?” he chuckled.

The moment the words tumbled out, Aziraphale jumped back. She looked undone, hair falling from her braids, dress wrinkled, cheeks pinkened and lips red from their kisses. But he noticed none of that, only taking notice of the brief flash of hurt in her eyes before all emotions shuttered completely from his view.

  
  


* * *

Aziraphale nearly cried, but she would not let the womanizer see her tears. She was stupid! Good lord, she was a monumental fool! He was playing with her. He was not choosing her over the other. He knew she was weak to his kisses. He could read her, see how she ached for intimacy and thus decided to humor her. That was all. He never even bothered to make amends for slighting her. That should have told her of his intentions. But she was naïve. So much so that Crowley had to remind her that _he_ wasn’t serious. Oh, she would not succumb to his wicked (and dexterous) tongue any longer. He may have his mistress, but he _would never_ have her.

She was preparing to bash his fine nose off but was saved from the barbarous deed by a knock on the door. It flung open to reveal a sandy-haired, young vampire.

“Aziraphale!" the new comer cried, running to embrace the blonde, the valise he held swinging wildly in his wake. "How are you, darling? I know you’ve been trying to reach me for days, but I was rather pre-occupied, I’m sure you know. I’ve been too excited to wait an hour more, deciding to swing by and call on you instead.” The youth gave her cheeks a peck.

“Zachariah?!” Lord Crowley gawked. For indeed, it was the stripling vampire, assistant to the Dark Council’s Human Emissary. Aziraphale hid her smirk. Her husband was not the only one with friends from high places.

“Master Crowley!” the young vampire startled. “I didn’t think you’d be here! But I did bring the reports." He waved the valise with a grin.

“Darling?!” the older vampire repeated, not hearing Zachariah’s speech.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale gave the red-head a sniffy look. “You may not think me a good conversationalist but I daresay I can talk to people on my own. And yes, shockingly, I actually know vampires that are not you.” She looped an arm through the newcomer’s and tugged to stretch the distance between them and the reddening Duke. “Come Zachariah. I'm sure my husband could spare a minute or two for a private chat between close acquaintances.”

"Husband?" the young man repeated with mock surprise. He was her confidante, apart from Newt, and she had sent him letters explaining her situation the day after their wedding. He would have known of of it in due course, but she wished to tell him the true accounts before his romanticism warped any fact she wanted to impart.

"Yes, dear boy,  _ husband _ ," she raised her volume to make sure her statement would find its intended recipient. “However he wishes to show it.”

“Oh, yes! Making love to the nefarious Lady Carmine would leave no questions asked,” her friend replied, exaggerating a moue. And of course that piece of knowledge reached his ears as well. The young nosferatu had an ear for gossip, after all.

“Oi, I --” the Duke started to protest from his place, but Aziraphale found herself wanting to be a bit petty and nipped him at the start of what surely would have been sa statement to clear him in the eyes of his fellow night-dwellers.

“Come along, Zacariah,” she dragged the younger vampire to the other side of the room, leaving a stricken Crowley to stew by the table.

"He doesn't know?” Zacariah asked in hushed tones.

“I'm afraid not,” she whispered back. “He’s made himself invisible the last few days and I’d rather not write it down. Pepper saw one of the messengers being bullied to give up our letters at one point and ran to beat them with a stick.”

“Goodness! Petrifying turn of events. I pity the spy.”

“The remaining of the Them had to pry her off, which reminds me I’d rather you not tell An- Crowley of our little system for the time being. Oh, I truly must beg of you to keep the mystery.”

"Honesty in marriage is a powerful thing, darling."

“Well, this marriage was unprecedented. I mean, Lord knows what happens when a Van Helsing weds their mortal enemy.”

"One dies, I’d wager!” Zachariah laughed.

"It is no laughing matter,” she said, trying and failing to keep her own smile from blooming. “You might find yourself wishing to stab me yourself, one day.”

"Shan't,” he sing-songed. "For you see,” he leaned in closer. "It matters not as it was your actions that cemented my love for you," he added earnestly.

"You flatterer,” the blonde giggled. “Don't let Albert hear you use that tone of voice, unless it is directed at him.”

"He may be a queen,” he waved her words away. “But he is not  _ my _ _Queen_.” The young vampire’s loyalty to her was still shocking. Normally she would dismiss it as a passing fancy but at that moment it was a heavenly balm when all she had been exposed to was the treachery of her husband. 

"The minute is up!" came a growl from the other side of the room.

"Spoilsport,” she muttered under her breath, then turned back to Zacariah in urgency. "All I ask is we keep my identity between us for the time being. I shall endeavour to tell him but with the way things are, I’m afraid he’ll think what spills from my mouth is utter balderdash. My physical presence had already been rejected, I’d rather not add my sanity to the lot.” She gave his arm a little squeeze, ignoring that little pinprick of hurt she felt at Crowley’s dismissal of her feelings. Somehow, it felt worse than Gabriel’s.

“Well?” Crowley’s voice could freeze Hell.

Zachariah leveled the Duke with a look and a pout but said in a lighter tone, “I offer you the warmest congratulations, my lord. It is a most auspicious match! And the opportunity to call upon both my Master and my Queen within the same house is of such convenience, wouldn’t you agree?”

He didn’t wait for the master vampire to reply and continued,  “Are her smiles not sunlight? Why, I hold no need to peek out at dusk, for hers hold more warmth than Lucifer’s lakes. But instead of pain, you’ll feel only love. Her laughter, an aria birds sing only during a golden afternoon. A treat, indeed, and I feel profoundly prideful when I chance to coax it out.” The younger vampire expounded on Aziraphale’s virtues which left her blushing from the onslaught and Crowley staggering at the blatant fondness Zachariah exuded for the blonde.

“You know her that well?” Crowley asked, shaking off the disbelief from his face and gulping down a large portion of wine from a newly proffered glass.

Aziraphale frowned as Zachariah looked from her to the other, noting the Duke's confused frown and her embarrassed exasperation. He grinned, and she could sense the devilry in it. He cleared his throat and projected his voice as clearly as he could, “I was her first.”

Crowley spewed ruby red drops unto the pristine table cloth. “Excuse me?!” he managed to ask, paying no mind to the wine flowing down his lips and staining his new cravat. “You and her were what now?”

“Good Lord above, you make it sound --” Crowley cut her off.

“No, no. I want him to tell me every detail of what he was to you and what you were--are-- to him.”

Aziraphale bristled.  “What I am is a person!” she belted, reaching the end of her patience and hating the sneer forming on Crowley's countenance. "More so than  _ you  _ know. I am not a  _ thing _ to be talked over. You question him but not me. And here I give proof that the things I say are not worth your time. Oh, you’re acting as despicably as when you did at the Device’s -- forming an opinion of my virtues without context. Well, I am tired of trying to explain myself when you won’t for your own infernal actions. As to what I am to Zachariah is none of your concern,” she turned her back resolutely on her husband.

She then faced Zachariah. "As for you --” whatever she had to say died from her lips, taking in the sheepish look on the younger vampire’s face. She sighed. “We’ve got places to be.  _ Tell your Master I’ll be off _ ,” she added, as she marched to the door with head held high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes were made. Crowley forgot how to word. Sorry about that.
> 
> Next chapter: we'll end up in an exclusive club... and of course, more bickering.
> 
> I have procured an iron door (side-eyes ServantOfMischief). Bang on it all you want.


	15. We Will Make Amends Ere Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A canter through darkened streets;  
> An encounter most discreet;  
> And foolish hearts anon meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little dialogue-heavy but there's a treat at the end.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! :D

The streets were shrouded in shadow, the clip-clop of hooves echoed in the alleyways, distant calls bouncing off its walls. Crowley ignored it all, eyes trained to follow the figures scurrying into the night. The moon was waning but it was still large and the sky was clear, if not for that he would have lost them. He made but a split-second decision to follow after Zachariah and Aziraphale, wondering where in Hell they would end up.

He noticed it was his wife who led the charge, arms gesturing wildly, still agitated from dinner. It was clear she knew her way around London even without a lamp, typical of her kin. Finally, they entered the streets of Soho. Braving the muck and dingy sideroads, he stalked them down to… a bookshop.

The Duke started. He ran all that way to spy on his wife making starry eyes at novels? He groaned, he should have known it would be books. He was ready to turn away and sulk back home when his gaze found the shop’s sign.

“Mr A Fell, Purveyor of Books to the Gentry...” he recited slowly. He hummed. Aziraphale had been introduced to him as ‘Fell.’ Could it be more than a shopping expedition? He peered at the imposing structure, taking in its details. There were brightly lit lamps at the top of the short steps, a clear sign, along with it being open that late at night, that it catered to the nocturnal citizens of the town. Curious, he edged closer, skirting the side of the building and spying through a side window. A bespectacled man with mousy hair was sitting behind the counter, reading steadily on. Except for him, the whole shop looked deserted. Chancing his luck, he stepped to the door, noting the confusing shop hours stuck to the glass, and sauntered in. He hoped he looked more like a man in need of a book and not one seeking to catch his evasive wife. At the sound of the bell, the man at the counter stood to meet him.

“Forgive us, sir, but the shop’s closing,” the man bowed to him, then crossed the space to intercept his advance.

“Are you Mr. Fell?” He barely made it past the circular entryway before he was politely ushered back the way he came. He was of course stubborn to a fault and stayed resolutely where he was.

“No, sir. Just the shop clerk. Why would you be needing Mr. Fell, sir?” the clerk replied, noting his stance.

“I’m in need of a specific volume. Is he within?”

“No, sir.”

“When may I see him?”

“Mr. Fell comes and goes as he pleases.”

“May I schedule a meeting?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, what about my purchase? I can pay good money for it.”

“Perhaps some other time? I do beg your pardon for the inconvenience, sir.” The clerk was subtly crowding him, making the red-head step back. 

“Look, you might already have the book. Surely there’s enough time for you to assist me?” he was growing desperate as the clerk subtly herded him nearer to the door.

“The inventory list would be under Mr. Fell’s purview, sir.” Another small tread.

“Well, let me leave a note and wait for him to get back to me, then,” he sighed, accepting defeat.

“I’m afraid he won’t take notes, sir. Only proper letters of acquisition,” and here the clerk produced a piece of paper, squinted at the loopy handwriting upon it. “The letter must specify the book in question, the intended home of said book along with the library or study conditions with regards to temperature, humidity, method of exhibiting the volume, plans for its upkeep and such. He would also need an extensive record of the number of members within the household, most ardently that of the absence or scarcity of children or misinformed individuals coming into contact with the book; the customer’s past association with similar specimens and their level of knowledge concerning…”

“Alright, alright! I get it! You could have just said ‘no’,” he mumbled as he turned the knob and walked back into the misty London evening. He strode off, glancing back once to check whether or not the clerk was keeping watch. The windows looked shuttered and there was no shadow, so he doubled back and slid into the alley that led to the back end of the shop.

The fog grew thicker and as the red-head halted, squinting around the corner to where he supposed the back entrance should be. He was not disappointed when a minute later, a door opened. Two hazy figures stood emerged. One lean, the other portly, in their top hats and coats ready to set off into the night.

“I’ll take you to the end, there, and wait for your note here,” Zachariah’s voice drifted to his hiding spot. The other did not reply but two sets of footsteps marched off, opposite Crowley’s stiffened hulk. He let himself breath, thanking his luck. Before he could contemplate on running after them, he heard Zachariah’s singing voice near. Acknowledging his chance, he waited until he saw him open the back door.

“Hullo, Zachariah.” The young vampire yelped, jumping back and stumbling in his state. Crowley let him catch his breath before stepping into the weak strip of light the door provided.

“Master Crowley… h-how come you here?”

“I’ve got my ways…” he said, looming menacingly over the poor lad, even taking off his dark lenses to expose his flashing, yellow eyes.

“Yes, so... you-you must be looking for…”

“She’ll only be angrier if I announce my presence,” he frowned. “But tell me, was that gentleman you escorted  _ the  _ Mr. Fell who owns this shop?” he gestured vaguely behind him.

Zachariah stilled then nodded reluctantly.

“Where may he be off to, pray tell?”

The youth eyed him cautiously, nerves slowly settling. “What are you planning, my lord?”

“None of your, nor my wife’s, concern. I’m merely following leads for the investigation and it led me here,” he fibbed.

Zachariah hummed, propping his chin on a dainty finger. “He’ll be off to an exclusive gentlemen's club. Members only, I’m afraid,” he grinned, pleased with himself.

“Exclusive, you say?” face full of interest, Crowley mentally listed off the establishments he knew that the man might frequent.

“Adds to his allure and mystery, don’t you think?” the youth giggled.

“Right... if I can’t pester him. I’ll make do with you,” he announced taking hold of the door’s latch and tugging it closed. The dark engulfed them immediately, Zachariah’s lamp adding nothing a blip of pale orange by their feet. “Now, what would your relationship be with Aziraphale?”

“Nothing drastic, my lord!” he answered quickly, no doubt expecting the interview. “I was the prey during her first solo hunt. Of course I was too cotton-headed to notice anything amiss!” he laughed.

“How is  _ dying  _ not drastic?” Crowley cried in disbelief.

“She helped carry my coffin a few mausoleums over and let me take a sip from her wrist. There was no threat!” Zachariah said defensively. “I even took the initiative of introducing myself properly after tracking her down to the Van Helsing country estate.”

“You’ve no sense of self-preservation,” the Duke shook his head at the thought.

“Oh, pooh. The place was basically deserted. Wonderful libraries. The town was stunning as well. Also, the other vampires in London weren’t being friendly. So there,” Zachariah pouted like the toddler he was.

“So you trailed after the first person to show you kindness like a stray pup?” Crowley sighed. He felt a certain sense of relief knowing his wife was in safe hands. He had not been jealous. At all. Although he felt a sour twinge at knowing someone else had got a taste of Aziraphale’s blood before him.

The youth stuck out his tongue at him, oblivious to the knowledge that Crowley could see him well despite the dark. He wasn’t truly mad, though. He couldn’t fault the child, knowing deep down that he’d have done the same if he had met a person like - no, if he had met  _ Aziraphale _ \- in his earlier existence as a bloodthirsty monster.

“She’s very good with puppies, and kittens, and generally almost every other living thing. I used to think that given time she could make anyone fall in love with her. Of course I was proven wrong, with your help, my lord.”

“Look, Carmine was an assignment. Top priority suspect, remember. You have the files, you know this!” Crowley heaved out. If he can’t get through to the angel, maybe the runt would. He’s obviously close to her.

“But why the theatre? And when she was there as well. Couldn’t you have found some different way to interrogate her? Less  _ touchy _ ways?” Zachariah insisted.

“ **She** was the one being touchy. And -” he stopped himself, trying to reign in his anger. He was directing it at someone else, again. “I was - is - a knob. And I want to apologize. But she’s avoiding me now,” he finished lamely.

“You sound truthful. Well then, do you promise to tell Aziraphale all that if given the chance?”

“Of course,” he replied readily.

Zachariah hummed meaningfully. “You shall find Mr. Fell at the Dead Poet’s Society,” he intoned before wrenching the door open and slamming it in Crowley’s face.

Stunned, the duked stared at the spot where the younger vampire had been. He composed himself before turning the information he was given over in his head. The Dead Poet’s Society was a space meant for his kind. Humans were rarely allowed in. He pondered his next move. He knew the place and he knew how to get in, but he was still at a loss on how the deuce this Mr. Fell would help his cause. Maybe he had enough authority to convince Aziraphale to sit down and listen at the very least. Resolved to find out, he made his way to a larger street to hail a hackney coach.

  
  


“Come off it, Fell. You must have the book.”

Crowley blinked, searching the area for the voice that called out the name. He had just entered a large atrium, cushioned chairs dotted the polished wood floor. One or two patrons were moodily drinking their fill. On one side, however, there was a group of vampires surrounding a man with curly white-blonde hair. It was messy and short, but it had the ethereal glow he’s already come to associate with one persnickety vampire hunter. He was dressed all in beige with a tartan cravat. Perched on the man’s nose were gold-rimmed spectacles as he looked over a piece of paper.

“I daresay, you gentlemen think too highly of my abilities. Such rare tomes you ask of me… some, you claim to date back to the times of Alexandria!”

The red-head’s eyebrows shot up. The voice had a measured edge to it, more likely to keep its tone low. Nevertheless, he knew. He knew it was Aziraphale. He was chasing the same goose after all! He snorted at the absurdity of his quest, alerting the group of his presence.

“Master Crowley!” one of the vampires, whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember, bellowed. “I didn’t know you’ve become a member.” Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s head snap to him, mouth agape. And even that expression had become all too familiar.

“My, my, my. Finally accepted the invitations, I see," said another nameless git, with a sneer his way. “Lord Crowley here had been asked to join the club for years but never accepted,” this an aside to the confused bookseller. “He’s well acquainted with the most famous authors of the last few centuries. Quite an insight if he’d dared give us the time of night. Who knew marriage was the only way to drag him away from the house!”

The Duke flexed his fingers to diffuse his growing ire. He decided to ignore them, keeping his eyes on the blonde. "I heard this was the only place to contact the elusive Mr. A. Fell,” he smiled warily, barely stopping himself from throwing his arms to placate the woman. "I've a mind to purchase a few volumes as a gift. The clerks weren’t being helpful. Told me only the owner could approve of sales. And when asked where said owner was, they couldn’t say! For I shop, I don’t think they’re too keen on making money."

"I didn't think Lady Carmine was the reading sort." Another lowly undead life form piped up.

"And what makes you think I was getting it for her?" he snapped.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but we thought-" said another.

"Bugger off. If you think she's worth any that kind of attention, might as well chop your own head off and present it to her on a golden platter.”

"From what I heard," Aziraphale finally spoke, shaking off her initial shock. "You appeared the quintessential couple in love the night before, er, Lord Crowley was it?"

Ah. She was bent on keeping her ruse. Crowley could play his part and perhaps manage to insert his apologies in. “She's not my type," he shrugged then babbled on, sensing the blonde's skepticism. "I simply needed information from her which I thought worth a little restraint from biting her hands off. T he only way to pry anything off a snake is to charm them after all.”

“Have you been charmed, then?” Aziraphale wrinkled her nose, but the hostility had dimmed. He ignored her implications on his being the more reptile of the two.

“Hardly,” he spat out with genuine disapproval. “If her charms ever worked on me I wouldn’t have exiled her and her cronies years ago.”

“Exile?” the third vampire queried.

“Oh, decades ago,” the fourth of the party provided. “Spreading dissent over London. Executing Council members. Bit too keen on starting the End Times. Couldn’t quite parse out whether they were naturally power hungry or plain mad. Had me hunkering in France to avoid them. And it made my flesh crawl to see Carmine parading the streets. I dread to see history repeat itself.”

“How ghastly!” Aziraphale quivered, placing a hand above her heart and lashes fluttering. Crowley frowned then reminded himself it was an act. She wasn’t as delicate when handed a note containing details of a massacre.

The fifth vampire, seated next to the blonde, patted her arm and spoke to her comfortingly, “We’ll keep you informed with matters. Goodness knows how humans would fare with the destructive forces abroad these nights. I’ll gladly drive you home tonight.” Crowley seethed at the hopeful look on the lout's face and his manner of speaking was a little too suggestive for his liking. The bookseller, oblivious to the other's looks, gave her effusive thanks.

“He’ll be riding with me,” Crowley declared. “Like I said, I need those books.”

“I’ve a rather long list of acquisitions to attend to first, Lord Crowley,” blue eyes rolled at his interruptions. “How urgent is it that you are willing to kidnap a respectable bookseller?”

“I was told my world was too small,” he replied delicately, alluding to the time they talked as themselves without any pretenses. His tipped his head down to meet her gaze unhindered, willing her to remember. “And I’d like to finally claim a promise made, what seems to me, ages ago.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then the softest of smiles graced her face. “An emergency, indeed," her voice thick. She cleared her throat before addressing the group, "Forgive me, gentlemen. Lord Crowley and I have business to discuss.”

“Shut up,” Crowley growled as Aziraphale led him up a stairwell and into a deserted corridor.

“But I’ve said nothing since we left the atrium,” the blonde laughed.

“You were thinking things,” he mumbled. “Could hear you all the way here.”

“Perhaps it would do well to voice them,” she stopped and faced the Duke, eyes twinkling. “It won’t come as a shock to you, I’m sure, to hear that you are very sentimental.”

“Nonono. I am not - “

“Sweet.”

“Oi!”

“Nice - ”

He pushed Aziraphale right up a wall, lifting her easily by her lapels, until they were nose to nose and pinning her up with his body. “I am not nice!” he hissed. “Nice is a four letter word...,” he drifted off, distracted by the blonde’s gaze drifting calmly from his dark lenses to his lips. He felt his mouth dry, suddenly noticing their position.

“Yes,” she gulped, eyes hooded. “Not, er, nice. Not at all. Forgive me my presumptions, Lord Crowley.”

“ _ Anthony. _ ”

He whispered in the space between them.

“ _ Please call me Anthony _ .”

He leaned in closer, resting his forehead against hers.

“ _ I need you to call me Anthony. _ ”

He pleaded one last time.

**...**

“Anthony.”

She finally whispered back and his thoughts scattered as their lips met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What should come after a heartfelt kiss...?


	16. God Has Given You One Face, and You Make Yourself Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags said smut... and here be the smut. (If you'd like to skip, it starts just after the horizontal line and ends with ****.)

_ Disorienting. Yes - that was the word. Or was it distracting. But wasn’t it debilitating? What was the question? _

  


Crowley’s thoughts scattered as he leaned further against Aziraphale's plush frame and the more stable wall to keep his knees from buckling. He heard a gasp from the end of the hall and swift footsteps turning away. It was a good thing. He might not have the wherewithal to keep from ripping a throat off if anyone dared interrupt them.

“Perhaps we could take this somewhere a little more private?” the blonde offered breathily, staring at the same spot where the footsteps had gone.

Reluctantly, Crowley set her down on her feet, stepping back to give her a moment to right her clothes. His eyes followed her hands as she smoothed the lapels of her cream overcoat. He groaned, only then realizing the amount of lace and brocade the outfit exhibited. And were those silk shoes! No wonder she had admirers. Paired with her already pouty lips and rosy cheeks, she would have looked the most effeminate in the room. 

“Why, in Satan’s name, are you wearing  _ that _ in a discreet gentleman’s club?” he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Whatever do you mean by that, dear boy?” the blonde frowned. Crowley wanted to kick himself. He wanted to get back to the kissing, another row would not help that endeavour.

“I mean nothing by it!” he answered quickly. “It suits you.” Aziraphale thawed a little. “A little too well if I’m being honest,” he added.

“I see no harm in wearing pretty things, I do have standards!” she said, twisting one way and the other to show off her fabrics.

“Yes, but men’s fashion at this day and time do not call for ‘pretty’ things,” he kept his voice even.

“I’ve been gifted a wonderful cravat one time, if you must know…”

“Of course, they’re encouraging you,” Crowley bemoaned. “They’re gifting you things to get closer --”

“I am an entrepreneur. How can I expand my connections if I appear aloof?”

Crowley counted to five, breathed deeply, and counted another ten more for good measure. “Right, where did you plan to continue our chat?”

“Oh, yes. That. Come along.” The blonde grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards the other end of the hall, up one more flight of steps and into a dim corridor littered with doors. “Here,” she whispered. Taking a key from her pocket, she opened one of them and pushed him in.

The first thing Crowley saw was the large bed in the corner. He raised an inquiring brow.

“Oh hush, these rooms are generally made available for feeding purposes between members or the staff on hand,” Aziraphale huffed, taking pains to check the lock. “Or rather, that’s, erm, what I’ve been told.”

Crowley watched the blonde fidget from where she stood by the door. A fireplace had been lit, warmth trickling from its low flames, the light painting her in warm orange hues. She had her back to him, rigid in pose. It was far from the flowing form she carried when dressed as a woman but he couldn’t help admire the lines she painted. In her tailored suit, she presented a masculine demeanor despite the frou-frou she covered herself with.

He cleared his throat, mind clamoring to understand the many facets of this seemingly ordinary woman. “I wasn’t given a key when I joined,” he mused aloud, hoping to reclaim his senses for the present.

“The keeper knows my… conditions,” she said in a cautioned tones, finally facing him. “It’s for precautionary measures. An escape route if you will.”

“Escape from what?”

“From those that followed me through the front doors?” she shrugged. “And from the, er, overzealous members.”

Crowley’s throat burned and he couldn’t trust himself to not spit at the latter’s insinuations. “So you do know the dangers of this little game of yours,” he seethed.

“Barely a game, dear boy,” she replied darkly but swiftly returned to her patronizing tone. “And I’m not totally oblivious, ergo, escape route.” The blonde turned her nose up. Adorably.

“Which begs the question… How did you manage to be invited to a club like this?” he asked, drinking in every expression that danced across the blonde’s face.

Aziraphale laughed, posture relaxing. “My dear, I have my ways. And if you really know me, you’d find that I will certainly barge through any door that promises proper debates on literature. And never shall I walk past a place dubbed  _ Dead Poets Society _ . It sounds ever so mysterious and romantic.”

“Understandable,” he couldn’t keep the smile from forming. “But the conversation from a while back didn’t sound like literary debates. More reminiscent of an illegal book acquisition.”

“Hardly illegal if said book was the purchaser’s own.” Crowley stared at her in confusion. She stared back nonplussed. “Most of their requests are personal items they’ve authored from ages ago and are far too meaningful or embarrassing that they need it back in their hands. And Mr Fell, the bookseller, has connections all over London, India, America, the Orient and back.”

The information had Crowley gaping. “That great a range?”

“I’ve never truly met my contacts, you must understand. Antiquarians have a habit of hoarding, including people they’ve met, and passing all of it to the next generation. It’s liberating to travel through letters. I needn’t leave the manor. Not that I could,” her fidgeting redoubled, cuffs and waistcoat taking the brunt of her discomfort.

“And how has Mr Fell started his business?” the Duke leaned against the nearest wall, fascinated at the newest revelations.

“The shop had been in business for a while. Done most restorations for the academics and built up its impressive collection. Although, I’ll proudly claim the success with its supernatural clientele. You see, Mr Fell was my grandfather…” she said softly, walking past Crowley to sit on the bed. “Bit of an eccentric, he was, which was why I loved him so much. And well, let’s just say he managed the bookshop exceedingly well until, of course…” she gave a sniff, a tear rolling down a cheek before she schooled her features once more. “Goodness, I miss him. I got his bookish interest and we spent the last few years of his life ensconced within the bookshop walls.”

“Angel…” he began, taking quiet steps nearer.

“He left the shop to me, and all his other effects. It is a rather handsome amount, I must say, but the true fortune is the knowledge that I was considered an heir. My parents knew of it, made them feel less anxious about my future. Vampire-hunting aside, as a human I would have been prone to destitution should male kin refuse to support me.”

“But your brother -”

“Knows nowt of it all,” she said, chuffed. “Which is a blessing considering his many rules. My father, with my mother’s whispers, had kept it from him lest Gabriel’s mouth divulge how financially enticing I was. When - not if, especially with such circumstances - the proposals arrived, it would be but a matter of time before he started listing those I should have prevailed upon to marry.”

Crowley bowed his head. “After all your mother’s and grandfather’s scheming, here you are, stuck with me.”

“Oh, dearest, you can’t believe you are a worser fate than being carted off by the likes of men as pompous as Mr Conner,” she reached for his hand, eyes widening as if she herself was surprised at her own candor.

_ Dearest _ . The word bounced around the red-head’s skull as he tried to rein in the urge to do a jig at hearing the word. He gripped her hand in his and took a steadying breath through his nose, applying himself back to the conversation. “Conner…” he licked his teeth. “Oh! The one you branded with your palm! Yes,” he tutted. “Anyone but him.”

“Gabriel would have loved him, I’m certain,” the blonde hummed, toeing her shoes off and sitting daintily above the covers, stockings stretching wondrously over her calves.

“Angel, I think we both know that I hate your brother enough to think his decision-making is dubious at best,” he snickered, using the moment to sit himself on the bed, not breaking their joined hands but keeping a respectful distance from her toes. “Why do you even bother with him?”

“He’s family,” the angel replied readily.

“He’s a headache. I know this, despite speaking with the man for less than four hours in total.”

“I suppose. But I mainly stayed on for fear that he would grow old one day, lonely.”

“But what of your loneliness?”

“I never considered at first,” she whispered, trailing a fleur de lis embroidered on the bed linen. “When we married, I harboured a little hope…” she trailed off, shooting glances at Crowley’s impassive face. “But then… and there was the, erm… anyway, until recently, I thought I will have to live as I have before.

Keeping to myself, no talking, no questions, flitting between different identities and sneaking off as needed, closing my ears from the hurtful reproaches so they slide off me as water slides off duck feathers.” Aziraphale waved her free hand in a gallant approximation of unconcern, if only her fingers didn’t shake.

The Duke flailed off the bed to catch it, succeeding but falling to his knees before the blonde. “Smite me for my transgressions, I never meant to cause you this much pain” his lips uttered without his intent just as she finished her little confession. Aziraphale discarded all pretenses and gazed at him wonderingly. They were only direct during fights but neither would listen. But this time, they weren’t shouting, they weren’t talking over each other’s words. He gulped. It was unsettling but he forged on. If he backed down, he might not find the courage to say them again. “Angel, I - I fucked up. But what I said about Carmine was true. I would never have --”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale shushed him, pulling him closer, until their foreheads rested against each other. “You do not need to pity me.”

“It’s not pity, angel. You are justified in hating me. I can’t insist enough,” he practically begged her to understand. “Your very presence captivated me from across the theatre. It was you I wished beside me, it was your voice I wanted whispering in my ears, it was your touch --”

“I’d ask you to go on,” the blonde puffed out, her breath fogging over his glasses. “But I hope you wouldn’t ask me to be that unseemly when you bring me to a play.”

“You are ruining the mood, angel,” he griped weakly, tossing his lenses aside and sliding his nose over her plump cheeks.

“You’ve already married me, no need to act so saccharine.” He felt her shiver as he nuzzled the spot below her ears.

“But marriage means I could smother you in all the honeyed words I can scrape out,” he whispered, surging forward to topple them down to the mattress. “Or actual honey, if you’d be interested,” he couldn't help but add, the sudden intimacy drowning him in pure want.

Aziraphale whined, the sound sending sparks careening down his spine. “I don’t -- I'm not-- it's not-- really--" she huffed inarticulately, red blooming on her cheeks.

"Or not. We don't need to do anything," he lifted himself up to give her room to breathe, ignoring the urge to grind his hips. But he didn’t get far, the blonde’s arms shooting to wrap around his neck and pulling him back in.

"It's not that I don't want to," she said in an undertone, eyes watching him through delicate lashes. “I, well, don’t really know…” she trailed off.

"So, I take it you've had no one in this bed before?" he teased, pleased at her reaction.

“It’s more along the lines of never even using this bed. But if you insist on following that particular context, then it’s still no. I've had no one. Ever,” she said in a small voice and it sent him reeling.

“Then…” he gulped. Would the Fates grant him his wish right then? “Would you be opposed to making proper use of it now?”

"I’ve… it’s --  _ yes, please _ ," she answered quietly and it lit him up from the inside out. He moaned her name before crushing her lips with his.

  


* * *

  


  


Puffs of heated breaths spilled out into the room as Airaphale panted and squirmed beneath her husband. The fire, left alone to burn had been reduced to embers. The cool evening wind drifted into the room from a partially opened window but the blonde felt only warmth -- hers mingling with Anthony’s.

"Get rid of this bloody wig, or so help me," the red-head tugged feebly at her head. Smiling, Aziraphale unpinned the accessory, freeing the flattened braid underneath. She pulled off the ribbons that tied it together and the red-head promptly carded his fingers through her natural cascade of pale, white-gold locks, letting it tint the white sheets. He then started on her cravat, struggling a little with the knot before yanking it off and kissing the same place where the fading fang marks were.

Her body was vibrating from the sensations, craving for...something. Something she couldn’t name, something she knew not how to reach alone. Anthony gave her exposed neck another nip and she keened, arching to feel his broad chest against her own. Her heart was palpitating, loud enough to drown out her whines.

She felt fingers clawing at her jacket. “Oh, please do be careful,” she stalled, half-conscious of what she was saying. “I've kept that in tiptop condition for 5 years.” Anthony snorted at her request but his hands gentled. He then moved on to her waistcoat and corset that bound her breasts to keep them flat. She heaved out a sigh of relief as they fell open.

“I prefer you in a dress,” her husband growled. “Too many blessed layers!”

Aziraphale opened her mouth to respond, but the Duke had started ripping her shirt open, patience finally snapping. Her skin buzzed in anticipation, forgetting to feel ashamed of her plushness. She giggled at his enthusiasm and sat up to help him remove the garments from her torso.

“This. Is. Not. Funny,” Anthony groused punctuating each word with a kiss before scrabbling for her breeches.

"Of course, dear. Not -ah!- funny at all,” she breathed out, feeling nails run down her legs as her husband slowly drew the hose off and away. The change in temperature drew her attention to the wetness between her legs. She squirmed at the peculiar feeling. The red-head tugged her pants off at last but kept her stockings where they were.

“Lucifer below, you’re gorgeous,” Anthony hissed, hands shakily mapping the curves afforded to him -- slow, exploratory, never demanding. She felt, more than heard, his ragged breathing as he bent over her bosom. His golden eyes glowed hungrily, pupils a thin slit - a snake about to strike at its prey. She felt a smidgeon of fear, but it intensified rather than curtailed the tingling sensation pooling at her lower stomach.

In all her years she was taught to only approach the enemy with the intent to kill, that a single show of weakness would end her. She followed the rules to the letter, only that she had at the very start, decided to kill them with kindness instead. She succeeded to reel them in and had amassed a vault of knowledge concerning their weaknesses. But since they had no protocols on vampire emotions, she told her kin none of the stories she’d heard.

She was also certain there were no warnings on being bedded by their supposed enemy.

Aziraphale bit her lips as Anthony mouthed at her clavicle and nosed down her cleavage, detouring to lave at her rosy buds. She had always loved the feel of cloth against her skin, different textures enticing different reactions. But Anthony’s stimulating touch was by far the most invigorating. She felt him caress her hips, her stomach, her legs, the underside of her knees. And each stroke, each kiss, each bite had her itching for more.

“Anthony, please,” she begged, for what she could not say but trusted her husband to know.

“I can’t wait any longer, either,” he gasped out. She looked over to where he sat in between her legs, still fully clothed but was frantically unbuttoning the front fall of his breeches. She felt her lower parts contract as her husband’s manhood was revealed, coating her inner thighs anew with her juices. “This might sting at first,” Anthony warned, voice strained.

She didn’t know what would hurt or why, until he had lined the tip of his sex against her own and slowly pushed it in. She cried out as it stretched her and he stopped immediately, nostrils flaring and eyes clamped shut.

“T-tell me when the pain’s g-gone,” he stuttered, shivering as he tried to keep still, hands clenching rhythmically at her hips.

“I- I’m alright,” she managed to say, feeling the ache subside and replaced by a craving to be filled as deep and as thoroughly as her husband could manage. “D-do as you will.”

The red-head whimpered and began to move once more, letting himself slide all the way inside her. “I- I can smell your blood,” he wailed. “It smells so, so --” he didn’t manage to finish the sentence as Aziraphale canted her hips to bring their bodies as flush as they could get. Pleasure washed over her and she tried to do it again but Anthony held her still. “Angel,” he growled.

“Anthony,” she quipped back, breathless.

“You’ll drive me mad with that,” he chastised, grip threatening to bruise her.

“And you’re driving me mad by  _ not moving _ ,” she complained with a roll of her hips.

The Duke swore, all sense of restraint leaving him as he thrusted into her hot depths in a punishing pace. He drove into her faster and harder, wrenching howls from her throat and tears in her eyes, but she cried for  _ More! Yes! Please more!  _ Her nerves were set alight, pleasure mounting higher and higher until with one final thrust she crested, toes curling, nails scratching and mouth yelling in ecstacy. She barely registered Anthony snarling into her ears, hips stuttering as he too found his release.

Panting, the vampire slithered clumsily to plant his face against her sensitive parts and lap at their mixed fluids, singing praises on the sweetness of her virgin’s blood. When it became too much, she tugged at his hair and he came willingly to wrap her in his arms.

  


****

“That - that was…” he swallowed through his aching throat but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, yes it was,” Aziraphale huffed beside him, hiding her own smile.

After a moment or two, Anthony stood to bring his clothing to order wincing at the stains they’ve made in the bed. With a flip of a hand it floated off the linens and disappeared. “Proud as I am to have christened your bed, angel. I’d rather we not give the help more rumours to spread.”

The blonde nodded, suddenly feeling shy. She reached for the bed covers and sat herself upright, searching for her discarded garments. Anthony noticed and reached out a hand to still her.

“I’ll gather your things, rest a while,” he soothed her with a kiss to her forehead.

“I ought to help.”

“Angel, quit being stubborn,” the vampire sighed already fishing her shirt from the floor. “It’s as if you won’t let yourself be cared for.”

“A few of the members had offered to,” she said unthinkingly. Anthony’s face darkened and she hastily tried to explain. “But truly I’ve only let myself be vulnerable with two immortals. Zachariah being the first, if you haven’t guessed already. But not this intimate a setting. And before you assume anymore, no, I do not go home with just any being that offers their carriage.”

The Duke’s shoulders sagged in relief, then he turned mischievous eyes on her. “What if I call over mine, to erm, drive you home tonight?”

“I may be persuaded,” she giggled. “There’s an exit hidden behind the corner panel that leads to the alley below. Brian's waiting at the end of it. If you call to him, he'll run to fetch your driver.”

“You know, if you’d have told me earlier, we could have taken the coach and let the kid rest,” he frowned, placing the last of her clothes at the foot of the bed.

“If you haven’t avoided me the last few nights I would have,” she shot back, gingerly sliding her shirt back on.

The Duke mumbled incoherently and excused himself to find the link boy in question, leaving a smug vampire hunter watching him slouch his way out.

  
  


“Oh, goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed as she stepped off the coach, knees shaking under her. Anthony caught her and, ever the gentleman, chuckled at her incapacity to walk on her own. The blonde blushed at his knowing smirk.

"Must you be indelicate, my dear?" she said rolling her eyes at the vampire's obvious glee. But she couldn't help her lips turning up in a smile as well. They've consummated their marriage. And the vampire looked ever so happy, a teensy bit smug, but unquestionably happy. They were and truly together a couple!

“I could not..." he murmured, bringing his body flush to hers. "But where would be the fun in that?"

She shivered at her husband's husky tone. "You do try your best to vex me," she pouted but Anthony just laughed. In one swift movement, the vampire lifted her from the street in a bridal carry, coaxing out a squeak of surprise.

"I'm not trying to vex you," he smiled down at her. "You're just adorable when you're flustered."

"Oh, you-you-" she sputtered. "Put me down, please," she said finally.

"But you're in no state to walk, angel," the red head tightened his hold. "And I promised to be a devout husband. Besides, I should have done this on our wedding night. Foolish of me to forget."

Aziraphale sighed at the declaration. "But what if someone sees!" she whispered half-heartedly now, melting into Anthony's arms.

"Angel, it's midnight. No one's going to -"

The door opened as they reached it, candlelight flooding the entryway. But it wasn't Madame Tracy on the other side but a boy, about the same age as the Them, with dark hair falling lightly to his shoulders but wearing fine fitted clothes. A child of wealthy origins. His brow was furrowed and was about to make a speech when Madame Tracey called, "Master Warlock, please let the lord and lady through."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another character makes an appearance! Their family just keeps growing bigger and bigger. :))
> 
> My draft was they go straight to the sexy times, but then they started talking and talking and wouldn't stop talking so I had to rearrange chunks of scenes from the next two chapters to clean this out. Sorry for the wait but they don't behave when I want them to... but look! A proper conversation for once. XD
> 
> Also, I'm not good with smut but Minda Webber's book has it so they do so at least once as a nod to that.


	17. I Have More Flesh Than Another Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot cocoa, a steamy letter, a brawl and a cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [ServantOfMischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ServantOfMischief) who let me borrow her OCs Babylon and Bada (though he's only alluded to, he wanted the spotlight on her) to add a little more spice to the chapter.
> 
> Buckle up, it'll be a ride!  
> 
> 
> CW: Mentions of violence (not graphic) and passing references to prostitutes/prostitution (common profession in those times for the lower classes).

"So it is true --" were the first words out his mouth, eyes jumping from Aziraphale, to Anthony and to Anthony's arms still holding her up. "You did marry, but I heard you didn't want her anym-"

Madame Tracy gave a cry, shooing the boy aside. Raising a lazy eyebrow to acknowledge their pose, she opened the door further. "If this be the result of the half-eaten dinner I was left to clean up, then I suppose I may forgive you," she grinned slyly at them.

Answering her with a grin of his own, Anthony marched past the welcoming committee before slowly setting Aziraphale down on a sofa in the sitting room.

"Er… I was hoping to continue our talks in bed," he whispered shyly and the blonde thrilled at Anthony’s reluctance to be rid of her company. "But since he's here now, can I introduce you to the hellspawn that opened the door? I'll set the rumours straight. He'll behave, I promise." Contrary to the epithet, there was fondness in Anthony's voice. This Warlock was someone special to her husband, and she would not say no to a simple request.

"Of course, dear," she answered. The vampire jumped to call the boy over.

The child walked in, flanked by the Them at a respectful distance. Anthony glared at the four but it would take larger threats for them to leave. Sighing, Aziraphale called them over and like many nights spent either back at the Van Helsing manor, the bookshop and most recently there in that sitting room, they took their posts on the floor. Two at either side of her.

"Be nice," she whispered, getting nods from three and an eye roll from Pepper. The Them were lovely children, generally friendly. But they had, in the few years with her, decided they needed to protect her. It was sweet, but she supposed it was from past experiences with her cousins and Gabriel. In payment, she taught them their letters and numbers, supplemented greatly with stories and a few treats when the occasion requests.

"Right," Anthony cleared his throat, deciding to look over the Them's presence. "This is Warlock Dowling, son of the American ambassador, Thaddeus Dowling. Through some unknown twist of perhaps malignant fate, I was announced as his godfather."

"I usually just call him Nanny," Warlock cut in, and before Anthony could dispute the fact, he carried on. "Because he's taken care of me for longer than all the real nannies my parents kept calling in."

"Speaking of nannies," Anthony parried back. "Why did they let you out at this time of night?"

"All the staff were busy preparing another ball," the boy shrugged. No one noticed me leave."

"Won't your parents worry?" Aziraphale exclaimed. Hands flying to clutch at the two nearest children by her knees. As a unit, the four slid nearer.

"They go back and forth between here and America and sometimes forget to take me with them," Warlock answered with an air of nonchalance, contradicted by his quivering lower lip.

"I've never been one for long travels," the blonde mused aloud, deciding to forego the discussion on the glaring lack of parental presence the boy had. "We prefer to travel by stories, don't we dear ones?" she smiled down at the Them, who quickly began asking what story they'd be hearing that evening.

"You'll join us, won't you, young Master Warlock?" she asked after asking the others to settle down. Both Anthony and Warlock’s eyebrows shot up. They were such parallels that Aziraphale did her best to keep from laughing. She had seen how they knew each other well and found the boy's ticks and mannerisms subconsciously mimicking the Duke’s. She surmised that the child had had a father figure all along.

"Er…" Warlock muttered, gaze flicking warily from the floor to the Them.

"But introductions first, yes? I almost forgot. Here we have Brian,' she gestured to the leftmost child taking a bite from a large sandwich as reward for the night’s work. "He can sprint through the streets of London blindfolded."

"Or when there's no moon. The lanes don't change. It's easy," Brian grinned.

"And this is Pepper," she continued down the line. "She'll be the captain of her own ship when she grows older."

"I'll call her Rebel," she sighed wistfully.

"The next would be Wenslydale, or rather Jeremy," the Them scrunched up their noses and she chuckled. "Well, we usually call him Wensley and he's a master at sums. Which reminds me my dear -"

"Mother brought me the shop books. All is in order, miss. You simply need to sign the ledgers and I'll have father take out the right amount for taxes."

"Oh, wonderful," the blonde clapped her hands proudly. The boy would make an excellent accountant in due course. She then turned to the last of the quartet. "And of course, we have Adam. The leader of the Them and the one person I know my pet snake loves more than me."

"That's not right, miss," Adam piped up. "He loves you very much." The boy then turned his eyes on Anthony. "I'd say only stupid people are dumb enough to not love you." Everyone fell silent. Adam stared down the Duke who flinched at his words.

"Hot chocolate coming through!" Madame Tracy trilled, sweeping into the scene with her tray of drinks. She handed Anthony one specific black mug with an, "I made this specifically for you, your lordship." Anthony took a sip and from his approving hum, she figured there was more than just chocolate and milk in the cup.

"I'd say you keep your stories for the evening," she admonished at the children scrambling to sit by the low table where the pot sat to await their own rations. "The lady looks to be in need of a rest. Errands gone to your liking, luv?" she directed the last to the blonde.

"Yes, very much so, Madame," Aziraphale reported, taking a long sip from her cup, enjoying its warmth, letting the children's chatter wash over her. "I must say, socializing is tiresome business."

"Do they make you talk to boring people as well?" Warlock asked, trying to lick off his chocolate moustache. Aziraphale tutted and leaned over to wipe it off with a kerchief.

"They do indeed, but needs must, I'm afraid."

"Mother said you're working too hard, miss," Wensley dabbed at his own lips primly.

"At least she doesn't come home to a monster," Adam commented offhandedly, words still vaguely veiled threats.

"Gabriel is not such. Must I remind you-"

"He's not here anyways," Pepper added. "So we can say whatever we want about him! No more late night boring meetings.”

“No more drills!” Adam piped up.

“I’m sure he’ll still be demanding my monthly reports,” the vampire hunter snorted, getting twin grimaces.

“But at least no more soldier talks on acting like a 'lean, mean, fighting machine'" Pepper huffed out, and went back to her hot chocolate.

Aziraphale winced. "The waistcoat did feel a little tight tonight," she muttered, setting her mug down a corner table, studiously ignoring the last mouthful of sweetness within. Suddenly she found it back into her hands, but filled to the brim once more. Anthony replaced the pot on the table and seated himself closer.

"I should tell you, I much preferred seeing that waistcoat on the floor," he whispered quietly into her ears and that was all the reassurance she needed.

If said words were reinforced shortly after with sweet kisses, loving caresses and an exceptional orgasm, well who can fault her for forgetting Gabriel's words altogether?

  
  


* * *

The next evening, Crowley awoke with a shiver. The bed too spacious compared to what he expected. He turned and groped for the body that ought to have been there but wasn’t. He opened his eyes to find only the lingering whiff of Aziraphale’s perfume on the sheets and the scattering of white down from when she tore open a pillow during the previous evening's activities.

Suddenly feeling very put out at not getting a cuddle to start his evening, Crowley threw off the bedclothes and fumbled to light a candle. Just as the wick sputtered to life, a thick square of cream paper caught his eye, his name written in the front in an elegant script.

> _ Dearest, _

It started and his heart swooped in elation.

> _ Do not miss me just yet. I write this as I gaze at you in repose. My dear, I have the sudden urge to wake you up with kisses, to bring your slippers as you stirred and kiss you more as you sit up. I'd have brought you to your balcony as the sun blinks out its last rays, still in our sleepclothes, daringly as it may sound, but goodness it would be a treat to watch your face lit up with moonshine, smiling as the first stars twinkle in welcome. I'd like you to wrap your arms around me tight as I struggle to run my hands over your arms, your shoulders, your neck and then to muss your hair even further amidst your grumbling. _

Crowley could hear the laughter there and chuckled himself, patting his head wistfully.

> _ Then perhaps I may have persuaded you back to bed and let you ravish me as you've done the night before. Or let you teach me the ways to give  _ _ you _ _ pleasure, my darling.  _

> _ Where may I kiss you?  _

> _ The dip between your jaw and Adam’s apple? Turning my head just so… to scrape my teeth over that smooth line towards your ears. May I kiss you there as well? The patch just beneath the lobe and where your hairline thins. Then down, following the slope to your shoulders, pausing where your pulse should be. Do you know? I’d like to mark you there as you have me. Would you allow me to nibble? To  _ _ bite _ _? _

> _ Where may I touch you? _

> _ Your chest is a marvel. How ever may I keep my palms from exploring its expansive depths? The feel of your muscles straining as we couple, the way they soften as you relax, captures me. Those scattering of auburn ringlets tantalize me so. Rough and smooth at the same time. Shall I skim my fingers across them? You keened at the scratches I left your back, may I use my nails once more there? To catch the ridges of your ribs, to sail past them -- further and further down following that tantalizing trail on your stomach… _

Crowley was gasping, the words blurring as he tried to keep his eyes open, hand pumping his sex furiously. Visions of Aziraphale’s naked self dancing in his head like a nymph, teasing him to completion.

> _ How I yearn to coerce from you the sinful moans from the evening before, your sweet whinnies, your ecstatic cries. Oh my dearest, please, let me tempt you... _

He groaned, face planted on the pillow shuddering from his release. He stretched on her side of the bed, a stupid grin on his face. He can forgive her from getting up before him, he decided. Cleaning his hand on his already soiled pants, he flipped to the next page still reeling from his high.

> _ It is with great effort that I slip from our wedding bed. I would have stayed, but for the missive that had come through and I must away. Gabriel's a bit of a stickler you see… _

Crowley sneered at the name. Why must she bring that daft gabster in her otherwise charming letter? He sighed, and went back to reading.

> _... and is in need of guidance. Although, when I say guidance, it’s more me doing the work for him. You see, it appears we’ve trouble brewing down the workhouses where our weapons are produced. None of them can understand a whit of how to pacify labourers. Faced with a room full of sharp pointy things and horrendous work practices, he sends me to calm the tides of angry carpenters.  _

Crowley frowned. A vague memory from the night before tried to niggle into his consciousness. He must think of a way to sever her ties with the incompetent bunch of hunters.

> _ But don’t fret, my dear. I am perfectly able and they do tend to listen to my pleas more than the others’. In any case, I know you’d want to come along but I cannot in all conscience tell you where the warehouse is. _

Crowley’s spirits plummeted further and he was ready to burn the letter out of pettiness when the next line gave him pause.

> _ Darling, that scowl does not become you. _

Crowley blinked, banished the scowl he did have on (easily, as amused as he was already) and read on.

> _ My cousin Uriel takes great pleasure in popping in and out to instill fear and compliance. I would not have her near you, especially within easy reach of weapons. I must insist upon this, dear heart. She is far more perceptive than Gabriel. But I understand how stubborn you can get, so if you wish, take Zachariah from the bookshop and meet me at the Seven Dials. _

> _ Mind how you go, dearest.  _

> _ ~Your faithful wife. _

Crowley glowered as he reached the end, this time over a different concern. “What in the Nine Circles would she be doing in the slums?”

  
  


* * *

“ **Paperwork,** ” Aziraphale squawked. “What papers are more important than the men beneath your office?”

She had spent two hours hastily preparing gruel to feed three dozen men in the confines of the workhouse. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. She had no control over the wages but she had been successful in persuading the others in keeping a few cooks to feed the mass during the strenuous hours. But that evening she found that only two of the help were left and the workload had been tripled. They were on the verge of a uproar. Uriel, as expected, was seated in her warm office, tea steeping by her elbow as she answered her correspondence.

“Aziraphale,” her cousin warned. She was stiff in her chair, not looking at her, fingers brushing her files in their neat stacks. She extracted one official looking letter, waving it in her face to annoy her, a coat of arms visible at the top of the sheet but the movement blurred it from her vision. Aziraphale clasped her hands firmly to keep from snatching it from her. “We’ve gotten orders for double the needed stakes and the sudden demand called for more wood. This meant we had to find other suppliers that aren’t as generous as our current one.”

“But why must you cut off funds from their salaries and their victuals?”

“We must cut our losses somewhere.”

“Then charge your so-called client and give the labourers their due!”

“The client, as you say, requires the full shipment before handing over payment.”

“Then tell me who among the family ordered the supplies that I may insist they at least pay half,” she pleaded. “These men have family and themselves to feed. Starving them further would kill them.”

“St. Giles has more than enough loiterers to replace the number we have below,” Uriel said with a shrug, eyes shifting to the letter in her hand and started penning its response. “Besides, the order came not from the family line. We’ve been outsourced.”

“This is inhumane…” she whispered, head throbbing from keeping her anger in check.

“Aziraphale,” the woman sneered, lifting her head to exude as much malice as she could. “You may have married a Duke but that does not change your position with us. Remember your place.” There was annoyance in her tone. One the blonde knew well enough to mean, ‘We’re done here.’ It was the same dismissal every time she asked to change something in their established system. More practical clothing? Denied. Reasonable training hours? Denied.

“You are right,” she said evenly, eyes downcast to keep her wrath from showing. “I have married a Duke. May I then be excused to return? He may question my absence.”

“You ought to ask why he has yet to contribute to the family vaults...”

Aziraphale was already out the door before her cousin had finished the sentence, walking to the end of the hall, down two flights of steps and emerging into the back alley. The dingy pub at the end of the lane was starting to fill with its usual rowdy bunch and she shot towards it. She kept to the shadows, avoiding the singing drunkards as she took off her bonnet, gloves and fine coat. The gown she had beneath was of coarse wool, hanging unflattering over her frame. She sped through the crowded tables, ignoring the whistles and fending off grabby hands. She ran past the barkeep with a nod and swept into the kitchens.

“Babylon!” she called. “Where are you?”

The door to the pantry swung open with a bang. A girl with strawberry blonde hair jumped out, feral eyes orange from the oven’s fires, brandishing a large rolling pin and scattering a pile of pots on her way.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” came her harried voice. “Are they starting the strike?”

“They may if they wish, I certainly won’t stop them,” Aziraphale replied, stuffing her nicer clothing into a hessian sack. From the same bag she took out a fraying apron, worn fingerless gloves, a simple bonnet and a large yellowing shawl. “My cousin’s turning a blind eye. Hopefully, none of them get hurt. But here, come help.”

“What are we to do, then?” Babylon asked, grabbing her own outerwear.

“What would you say to a little thievery, dear girl.”

  
  


“There he goes!” Aziraphale whispered, pointing to a silhouette holding a torch high. The messenger had just been handed Uriel’s post and she was desperate to get ahold of one specific envelope.

“So, you’re risking the streets for a letter?” Babylon grumbled.

“Quite, but I do believe you ought to ask yourself why you’re taking the same risk with me.”

“I grew up in these streets Az, I’ve nothing to fear,” the younger blonde rolled her eyes.

“Oh, good. I feel safer already,” the vampire hunter grins. “Now come along.”

The messenger was running ahead, towards the Seven Dials. She hoped the converging streets posed enough traffic to waylay him but she was restless. The mail might be snatched by some other robber before they’ve had a chance to come near. A gaggle of light-skirts were huddling just underneath an arch by the alley’s exit where the boy would have to slip through. She racked her brains for something to stop his progress, and did the first thing that came to mind.

“Oi, youngin’!” she cried in a husky, gravelly voice. “Where’s me pretty penny? An’ with yer rippin’ me petticoat to boot!” She hastened her walk but swayed every few steps in imitation of one having one to many gin glasses for the evening, Babylon shuffling close as if to catch her if she fell. Her accusation had the women crane their heads to watch with one stepping forward to block the messenger’s path.

“Been shammin’ that there lady-bird, eh?” the woman sneered. The lad jumped back, and the others snickered. “Blimey, yer a jumpy one. But ‘ere, give us th’ tuppence and we’ll deal with ‘er.”

“Sorry, but I don’t know what you mean,” the messenger squeaked. “I don’t owe anyone money.”

Aziraphale ran faster. “I’ve earned me keep, ‘es mine!” she shouted as they neared. 

“You’ve got spirit, poppet,” the woman by the archway laughed. “Fancy a mill to see who gets th’ copper?” The signal given, she and her friends circled the pair and the messenger.

“Az,” Babylon whispered, gritting her teeth. They stood back to back, calm and alert. She had always admired the girl’s puck.

“I’d only need a minute,” she hissed back, watching the messenger stumble nearer, his satchel swaying by his side.

“Right,” the younger woman snorted, revealing the rolling pin she had pocketed before they left. “I can do a minute.” With a whoop, Babylon swung the utensil to stave off the nearest mugger. Their screams temporarily caught the others’ attention, letting Aziraphale pull the messenger’s torch down and extinguish it. The sudden darkness had the the group fumbling but she was focused on prying the bag off the boy. He whimpered through the ordeal and she shoved him bodily to the side - away from where most of the fighting was underway.

She used the torch as a cudgel to push off their shadowy attackers. From behind her was the sound of fist hitting flesh. There were smacks, thuds, grunts and yelps all around. Only the solid weight of Babylon’s back pressing against her, and her laboured chuckles now and then told her the girl was fine. She shook her head at brawls, but in those parts, it was a common, necessary thing. A light bloomed from one of the windows overhead. It was small but enough a distraction for her to grab Babylon’s arm and tug her away towards the exit. Bricks cracked somewhere nearby. It was the unlit torch she dropped, smacking into the wall inches from where her head had been three seconds before.

They ran into the junction, and swerved to hide in a different street, stopping at an empty alcove to hide from their pursuers. They heard boots rushing near and held their breath. 

“A-angel! Where the heaven are you?” she heard a familiar voice wheeze and she breathed out in relief.

  
  


* * *

Crowley was hating every minute that passed in their glum little corner. St. Giles was a thief's domain and picturing his wife near their grubby mitts was a distressing past time. He had shied away from the district, hating the way it reminded him too much of the uglier times in history.

He had come to the bookshop itching to run to Aziraphale’s aid, only to be chastised by his inferior. “Too clean, too new, too noticeable!” the lad cried, pulling at his plainest shirt and coat. “That will never do.” He had been thrown a bag with decidedly shabbier-looking clothing, the materials scratching at his skin, and was bustled off to change. They walked the inky black streets, lamp low and fully extinguished as they started their vigil where Zachariah would usually wait for Aziraphale during similar outings. He was warring with himself. Aziraphale was a Van Helsing, he told himself once more, but he still had trouble coming to terms with her being loose in the hodgepodge wastelands of London’s slums. They were half an hour in at fending off the locals when the brawl started.

They kept to their spot, watching the bobbing torch light sizzle to nothing. A deep sense of unease flooded him and he dragged Zachariah with him to come look. They huddled just outside the alley, waiting for the fighting to die down when some busybody chanced to light a candle and peer down at the group. Two blurry shapes ran out close enough for him to recognize the silvery strands of hair flying wildly from loosened braids. The shouting redoubled from the other side of the archway, calling for the escapees. With a growl he kicked a rotting stack of crates to fall across the path and scampered off to follow his wife’s path, Zachariah stumbling behind him.

“A-angel!” he called, holding the stitch at his side. “Where the heaven are you?”

A shadow emerged from an alcove. It timidly called him over with his wife’s voice and he slowed as he neared, letting his breathing normalize, almost gagging at the putrid air burning his nostrils.

“Explain,“ he coughed out.

“Not here,” a voice snapped at him. He turned his head to find a girl on the cusp of womanhood leaning against the walls. He reached out with his senses. Human.

“We-we better go back,” Zachariah added in between pants, finally coming to a stop just behind him. “Albert h-has a, hooo, has a table ready.”

“Alright, but first tell me who started that god awful brawl you found yourself in,” he pulled Aziraphale closer to check for injuries. “I’ve a mind to knock sense into them.”

The human girl guffawed, “Oh, oh. That’s rich! Go on, Az, tell the man, whoever he is.”

“I’m her husband, you little brat,” he shot back, not liking her tone, at all.

“Husband?” she gasped and turned on the angel. “You never…”

“We’ve been married but a week, and we had a riot to forestall,” his wife pouted.

“For that, I’ll expose you to this husband of yours,” the young woman grinned in response. “Good sir, it’s the lady in your embrace that started the skirmish,” she declared in a posh accent before giggling at her own antics.

Crowley rounded on the indignant vampire hunter, waiting for a denial but got none. “Great. Bloody good of you to throw yourself in more danger than this place already provides,” he sighed.

“Oi, she may look it, but she’s not that fragile,” the girl argued.

“I know that--”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“I was just worried!”

“Unfounded.”

“Fighting in the streets is a good enough excuse.”

“It was necessary!”

“And why were you in the middle of it as well?”

“I’m as competent.”

“You should know better.”

“Hah! Know your wife first.”

“Enough!” Zachariah shrieked, giving Aziraphale a look which the other returned with innocent amusement. The lad tutted, deciding to relight his lamp instead of dealing with them.

“Right, I should probably return to the workhouse, anyway” the human girl straightened, hiding what looked to be a rolling pin into the folds of her skirts.

“He’s a smart boy, my dear,” Aziraphale reached over to pat her hand. “He’ll be alright.”

“He better be,” the girl grumbled, turning on her heels.

“And what about you?” Crowley asked as she started to walk off.

“What about me?” she quipped back.

“Will you be alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she bristled.

“You won’t have Aziraphale with you anymore,” he shrugged, hiding his concern for her safety, just in case she lashed out again. She merely laughed.

“I’ll be fine, Mr…”

“Crowley,” he said, tipping his flat cap in salute.

“Babylon,” she curtsied gracefully. “It’s been a pleasure, sir.”

“Take care, Babylon,” he replied. 

The girl waved and jogged off, leaving the reaches of Zachariah’s lamplight. The three then turned to walk their own way back to Soho.

  
  


Crowley was seated on a quaint table in a little restaurant a few doors from the bookshop, glaring at his doe-eyed wife. “Let me repeat - explain.”

"Where would you like me to begin?" she asked, spearing potatoes on her plate..

"I've had a long night," he breathed. "Enlighten me however you see fit."

“Well, the workhouse is somewhere in the slums, as you might have guessed. Babylon’s sweetheart is one of the carpenters there. I found her work in the nearby pub because she was worried for his health. They and the pub owners are my… operatives in that part of town. They're taken good care of, unlike the other workers. Babylon's a free and fiery spirit and I am fortunate to be in her good graces.”

Crowley nodded, one more puzzle piece slotting home.

“This establishment is Albert’s. The man who greeted us at the door. He’s more down to earth than Zachariah and the only one that could reel in his flights of fancy,” she smiled then leaned forward to whisper, “They have lodgings above to cater to mollies and prostitutes.”

Crowley choked on his glass of water. “A rather expansive business,” he dabbed at his mouth.

“No. It’s more a haven or those looking for somewhere to hide for the time being,” she added calmly.

"An antiquarian’s bookstore, a gentleman's club, a molly house and prostitutes,” he ticked off. “How many pies have you got your thumb in, angel?"

"Well, I do love pies," she wiggled, eyes twinkling. He sighed at his impossible wife waiting for her to say more. "Oh, fine, if you're to grouse at it,” she added finally. “I've numerous contacts throughout London ranging from the noble houses to the docks.” She poured out a cup of tea for herself. “I do what I can to make sure the humans stay where they ought to be or at least where they are least likely to sustain damages from supernatural activities.”

"Shall I assume these suspect engagements are not part of your vampire hunting responsibilities?"

“You’d assume correctly, my dear.”

“There’s a larger picture here that you’re still keeping from me. Manpower you’ve a-plenty, now that I think about it. But you’d need information for your machinations.”

Aziraphale set her cup down, turning serious. “Now that you’ve glimpsed how I go about my evenings, perhaps you’ll be able to believe me when I tell you my true work?”

“You’ve heaped all this on me and frankly I’m going to need more time to process it all, but you could add another. Dedicated, supportive husband now, remember?” the Duke smiled. Yes, her angel wore too many masks, but her moral compass pointed true. He could take her confessions in stride. He was finally getting to the core of her and there was nothing she could say to shock him further.

“I am the Dark Council’s Human Emissary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got a headache from trying to parse out Aziraphale's life, you're not alone. Even I'm not privy to it all. 😂
> 
> The adventure's just starting folks! But the end is nigh...


	18. Men at Some Time Are Masters of Their Fates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Cliffhanger at the end. Read at your own risk. ;)

There were muted thumping sounds as Crowley trailed his fingers over the spines of rows upon rows of leather spines. He was walking in between tall dark oak bookshelves, wandering aimlessly as he tried to make sense of where he was. His recollection of how he got there was hazy at best. Aziraphale had pulled him back to the bookshop and had shoved him down the cellar door. She guided him deeper underground until they emerged into a large library, the groaning racks towering and tapering into dark and unknown corners.

The night had shoved him turn after turn into the intricacies of his wife’s work and he couldn’t quite properly comprehend his footing over so much information at once. He had wanted to drag the blonde home in the interest of foregoing the thinking bit for another day and focus on losing himself in his new, favorite pastime - making his wife scream into their recently shared bed. But Aziraphale insisted she finish her work for the evening. Unwilling to leave her alone again, he had stubbornly tagged along.

He had been led to a lounge area which looked strikingly familiar to the bookshop’s foyer but much more organized and instead of an oculus from above, there was a caged fire pit at the very center of the gleaming stone floor. He had been sat down on a rather threadbare but very comfortable sofa facing its warmth and light, noting the multitude of other furniture - sofas, armchairs, settees, and desks - scattered about. They had all looked well used with ink stains blotting wood or cloth. The space held an academic air to it. Not his scene.

Which led him to his current predicament of perusing the library’s shelves to stave off his boredom. It was like a maze and with his thought-laden brain, he soon found himself lost.

“Bugger this…” he swore as he tried searching for a landmark to point him back to the right direction. Three dead ends, eight stubbed toes and a budding headache minutes later and he still hadn’t managed his way.

“Blasted shelves, blasted books...” he grumbled, wondering if he should start calling out for Aziraphale, embarrassing though it was.

“Crowley? Is that you?” came a voice behind him. It originated from a man dressed in a simple white tunic and black breeches, grey hair slicked back from his heavily whiskered face. He gaped, stunned at the apparition. The man was surely a ghost. He was there when he died two centuries before!

“Sir Alfred?” he queried. The man had been a scribe, a genius and an excellent soldier during his life and one of the few Human Emissaries he deigned to interact with, even calling them a friend. The only one, excepting Aziraphale, if he was honest with himself. His memory supplied the others acting a little stuck up.

“Been a while,” the spectre grinned, as irritating as he remembered.

“Do you-- do you haunt this place?”

Sir Alfred scoffed, “I don’t haunt, boy. I’m not a ghost.”

“And I’m not a boy,” he grumbled, but couldn’t truly hide his smile. “I am and had always been older than you.”

“You don’t act it,” the man snorted.

Crowley deigned to reply to the jab and asked instead, “What are you then?” He moved closer. “You’re corporeal?”

“As solid as the last table you just kicked,” he smirked.

“Oi, so you were watching me and didn’t have the decency to show yourself sooner?”

“Never thought I’d see you here, took all your cursing to recognize you,” the man laughed. “So, still a vampire then?”

“What do you mean, still a vampire? What else would I be, an aardvark?” the Duke snapped, irritated at being seen less than composed.

The man tutted and strode forward to smack the back of his head, it didn’t hurt, but he had been effectively cowed. “One thing’s for sure, you’re still a brat.” Crowley fought the urge to stick his tongue out. “But last I remember, you were well on your way to becoming a full demon. Have you given up?”

“No, still at it,” he replied, smoothing down his hair. “I’m still mulling over the offer. Beelzebub informed me my contract’s ready, all I needed was to sign. It seemed Lucifer’s pleased at my approach in dragging down souls. Told me I’ll be their best agent on earth if I’d take the job.”

“I thought you’d have jumped at the chance,” the man frowned. “Wouldn’t you want to step out into the sun again? Like you gushed at long ago.”

“I suppose after all that waiting, I’ve gotten used to the dark,” he supplied morosely.

“Pity,” Alfred nodded. “But then I suppose you’ve more freedom now than a normal demon would have.”

“My soul’s already shackled to Hell, it won’t really matter, just weighing which is the best course to suffer through eternity.”

“True. I’m in the same boat, you know?”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been promoted to a Messenger of Heaven.”

“But you were a prick! How’d you get up there?” he asked with a laugh and had to quickly duck to avoid another boxing.

“I had served my time as an Emissary. We’re contractually obligated to surrender our souls to aid the Host.”

Crowley stilled, feeling lead fill his stomach. That was a rule he had never heard of before. “What do you mean ‘contractually obligated’?”

“With the paperwork, signatures and all that. To be made slaves to their cause,” the man drawled, waving lazily towards the ceiling. “Angels up there think themselves too high and mighty for earthly interactions that they need the likes of us to do the dirty work. Especially after humans learned to trade their souls to infernal entities. We were needed to even out the score, we were told.”

Crowley just gawked at him. Would Aziraphale follow the same path? She’d turn immortal much like he, but if her soul was already called for by the other side, he couldn’t claim her as his eternal  _ vampire  _ bride. It would split her and he grimaced at the possible outcome. More likely she’ll turn into a wraith, a sliver of her old self. He scowled.

“Come now. It’s not unheard of,” Sir Alfred pats his shoulder, completely missing the source of his discontent. “The Metatron was human before becoming God’s Voice. The place is a little bland, and the missions a bit demanding, but overall it’s tolerable. We’re more resentful of the fact that getting permission to come to earth for pleasure trips takes a long while.”

“Can’t you just pop in and out?”

“Unfortunately not,” he smiled sadly. “We’re not allowed to roam the Earth. I can’t even leave through the door,” he gestured blindly to somewhere behind Crowley. “When I try I’m just teleported back to Heaven. Although I can slip in here once in a while. I was this library’s founder. It holds a part of my soul, my existence. Alright, now you could say I am haunting it,” he chuckled. “It was just a room back then, of course. But the first journals were from my own hands.”

“That’s--” he felt grief worming its way into his heart. What little hope of frequently meeting with his wife was being thoroughly dashed.

“Mhmm,” Sir Alfred hummed. “At least I get to come back. The others resent me for it. But it’s a mild thing. Anyone who takes the position is warned. To form deep bonds mean heartbreak of the acutest kind when they are recalled. Some lived as aloof as they could. Hurts less, you understand. But the feeling numbs as the years pass.” He frowned. “Unfortunately the current Emissary throws all the warnings aside and gives away their love too freely.”

“I think she’s incapable of  _ not _ loving,” Crowley sighs. “The best of all angels and she’s not even properly Heaven’s yet.”

Sir Alfred furrowed his brow and was on the verge of commenting when Aziraphale’s voice drifted towards them.

“Anthony? Where are you?” Crowley twisted to face the aisle where slippered feet tapped lightly on the floor. It was soon followed by the woman herself, concern in her face. “There you are, dearest,” she called as she neared. “You disappeared on me-- Oh! Sir Alfred,” she stopped before them giving the old man a curtsy in greeting.

“None of that you silly girl,” he laughed and tugged her in for a hug. Then settling her at arm’s length. “‘Dearest’?” the man raised an enquiring brow.

“Er… yeah,” the Duke intercepted. “Sir Alfred, meet my wife,” he couldn’t help but smile at the word. He hadn’t said it enough times. He wanted to. And he was determined that he would. Damn Heaven… or something of the sort. He would find a way.

Sir Alfred hummed, eyes flitting between them, lips pursed, then grimacing as he remembered their earlier conversation. “I- Well, I don’t know what to say…”

“You owe me a hearty congratulations,” Crowley insisted, pulling Aziraphale close. She squeaked at the contact but didn’t pull away. “You’ve told me once to ‘live’ a little more. And here I am.” He tipped his head briefly to show the man the sorrow that had built up in his unnatural eyes. This he would not show to his wife. He will take their years together and live them to the fullest, then he will seek a way to take her back, even if it meant prying Heaven’s pearly gates open.

“There you are, yes,” the other man conceded, then shook his head. “But must you take a  _ vampire hunter _ ?”

“It is rather unconventional, but we’re managing somehow,” Aziraphale smiled, making Crowley squirm at her approving tone.

A slight breeze passed them like a sigh, making Sir Alfred chortle. “Ah, the library asks forgiveness for leading your husband astray, Aziraphale.”

“This whole place is sentient?” Crowley gawked, eyeing his surroundings a little more meticulously.

“You got lost? Why have you not called?” the blonde turned to him with an exasperated air, then gentled once more. “I suppose I have forgotten to warn you. Entirely my fault,” she patted a nearby shelf to show she harboured no ill will towards the library. “Shall we retreat to the lounge then? Where there are less books to hide behind? I have but one last letter to peruse.”

“Aziraphale stocked more than just boring journals,” Sir Alfred related as they walked. “The little room grew exponentially in the few years she had it. And the library loves her for it.”

“What, you feed it books and it decides you’re its new master?” the Duke smirked.

“Sounds about right,” the other man grinned. “As certain as a pup shall tail you home after handing it a bone.”

The blonde rolled her eyes at them. “Humans,” she started in lecturing tone. “Since time knew when, are fond of keeping records of their stories, imagined or otherwise. Rather a shame to not add them to the collection.”

“The library materializes books for her as well,” Sir Alfred added.

“However do you find the strength to leave!” Crowley mockingly cried as they reentered the lounge. He noticed the fire burning a little brighter than before.

“Really, now. I do have work to worry about,” she gestured to the desk she had occupied. “More so now than before and other duties besides…” she said, giving him a sly glance and coloring a little at the end.

“So,” Crowley cleared his throat, not wanting to have Sir Alfred asking information regarding those particular  _ duties _ . “What are you going to do to those letters?” he indicated to the papers as she sat back down.

“They shall be replicated and recorded, along with the others. That is if we find anything worth our time inside. So far I can use them to document unjust labor practices.” The blonde carefully popped open the wax seal of the last and thickest of the lot and began reading the contents of the invoice.

“Anthony…” she called in urgency.

“What is it, angel?” he and Sir Alfred loomed closer. Aziraphale handed him the letter. Their faces fell, grimacing at the listed order for vats of holy water and silver weaponry. “It says here the delivery’s been done. That doesn’t sound good at all.” Then he found the client’s name. “Zuigiber…” he hissed. “Shit, Burton ought to know. I need to tell him. We need to plan our defense as quickly as we can,” he said, scrambling to find his coat and hat.

“I’ll give out the call,” the other man announced rushing off without another word.

Aziraphale nodded, shoving the other, less interesting letters back into the satchel and dug out papers and ink pots from numerous drawers. “I’ll draft up an official report and send them out as fast as we can.”

The vampire hissed as he tugged at his outerwear. “Then you’ll rush back home,” he told her.

“I thought I might-- ”

“No,” he said, facing her with a meaningful glare - stony and forceful even with the comical way his hat perched on his head and his coat half-way on. “I’ll hire a coach and leave the carriage here to take you back. No excuses.”

“But--”

“Please,” Crowley pleaded. “You already had to run for your safety tonight. Please stop trying to court death, while I’m not around to tell them to shove off.” And with his new found knowledge, he was doubly insistent to keep her from harm’s way.

“Darling--”

“Please,” he said once more, striding back to her side as fast as his lanky legs allowed. He pulled her closer and laid his forehead against hers. “Angel, I’ve only just got you. You gave me a taste of happiness I’ve never thought I’d have. I’ve been alone for far too long and if something happens to you, I might not be able to face being alone again. You don’t know how daunting that is to an immortal.”

“Surely you’d find someone when I go,” she replied, voice small and uncertain.

“Never,” he smiled as he pressed his lips to her brow. “No other being could replace you,” he breathed into her hair. “So, I’m begging…”

“Alright,” she said thickly, curling into his arms. “I promise to return home, so long as you promise to come back to me as soon as you can.”

Crowley grinned, “Now that is a promise no one in Heaven, Earth nor Hell could keep me from following through.”

“Soon...,” Crowley muttered, banging his head against the door of Burton’s carriage as it turned towards his street an hour after sunset the next day. “I promised...”

“Relax, Crowley,” London’s Master Vampire snorted across the seat from him. “She won’t throw you out of your own home for returning past sundown.”

The Duke ignored him. He felt utterly guilty. He had been too busy to send at least a note to tell her he would be a while yet. They had spent the last hours of the previous evening and most of the morning rallying available troops. Other members of the council dropped by, Aziraphale’s missives in hand. Carmine and her underlings were armed and Burton was anxious to speak to his wife for any other information she might have garnered in the day. The master vampire raised no questions as to the news of his wife’s involvement in the Council but he knew after the emergency died down, he would be subjected to an extensive interview.

A different carriage trundled past and rattled to a halt before his abode’s doors. When they stopped beside it, out came the Devices. Surprised, Crowley hurried to meet them. Anathema, to his confusion, was in full hunting gear, the pockets of her thick coat bulging at the seams.

“Where’s Aziraphale?” she demanded before he could greet her.

“Inside?” he answered, perplexed. He wondered if she was mad at him and resolved to have his wife relay their subsequent reconciliation. “What’s wrong?”

The witch ignored him and rushed to the door. It opened to a dark and silent hall. Anathema cursed, fished out something from a pocket and flung what appeared to be powder into the air, where it obediently flared an eerie bright green with a word. They flinched at the sight before them. Furniture had been upturned, fineries stripped and Crowley’s curios along with some of Aziraphale’s books were scattered in pieces on the floor. It arrested them, dread gluing them to the entryway until panic set in and had them scrambling to search the desolate house for its supposed inhabitants.

“No one’s here,” Anathema hissed as they reconvened at the hall, her voice rising in pitch. The others announced the same, Crowley fighting to keep his voice steady. Everyone was gone - Tracy, the Them, Azira--

“I smell--,” Newt breathed out but didn’t finish, eyes widening in horror. He grabbed the witch's arm as he swayed to and fro to catch more of whatever scent it was. He led them to the garden and there, where he remembered his wife had sat with laughter, were the distinct smears of dark, dried blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story ran away from me. It was supposed to be sweet and simple... until it wasn't. XD
> 
> Sorry, my brain's still fogged up. Had exams week a while back. Not mine but my niece's. Had to do a crash course on basic accounting because their 'teacher' wasn't 'teaching'. And we had days contemplating whether or not their Creative Writing teacher would notice some of the students copying Shakespeare, Poe and Byron when they were asked to make 'original' poems. Suffice to say, it's been eventful.

**Author's Note:**

> For historical inaccuracies and general confuddlement, I invoke the power of the Fantasy AU tag.
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
